ornament—they go closer to the doors. I thought you would like to hear about this. We can’t make much of it here, and I don’t suppose you’ll make more. A ship’s officer like that—you don’t expect him to be a fence in a common way, and he’s about the last you’d name for a professional hand in Paris—for if this is Baron Louis’s stone, as you say, it must have been stolen in Paris.”

“No reason at all, Murray. His wife wore it in her tiara. She was at the Prince’s, I believe, no more than a month ago. Does that occur to you?”

He shrugged his shoulders as though I had been judging his capacity, which, God knows, would have been an unprofitable employment enough.

“We haven’t begun to think about it,” he said. “How can we? No ship has reported his loss. He carried a pipe, a tobacco box, a gold watch, and this. Where does your clue start? Tell me that, and I’ll go on it.”

“There are no papers, then?”

“None—that is, this paper. And if you can make head or tail of it, I’ll give a hundred pounds to a hospital.”

He passed across the table a worn and tattered letter case. It contained a dirty calendar of the year, a lock of dark-chestnut hair, a plain gold wedding ring, and a slip of paper with these words upon it:

“Captain Three Fingers—Tuesday.”

“Is that all, Murray?” I asked when I had put the paper down.

“Absolutely all,” he replied.

“You have searched him for secret pockets?”

“As a woman’s bag at a remnant sale.”

“Where did he carry the diamonds?”

“Inside his waistcoat—a double pocket lined with wool.”

“No arms upon him?”

“Not a toothpick.”

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