see it now. It seems a little more difficult to place than the last time, but there it is, and quite large.” He ran a thin finger over an irregular outline. “In a certain light it might be almost invisible. Very faint, I admit, but surely your young eyes are as sharp as my glasses?”

Dawkins scrutinized, nodded, mumbled an apology, and made an entry in the large book. Mr. Jarrad turned to Derrick.

“That’s what I referred to, sir, and it’s not my habit to overlook small things. The foundation of a sound inventory business is system plus what might be called perception.”

“Perception?”

“Yes, sir. It involves a certain amount of sensitiveness, strange as that may sound, and the ability to perceive and record what is usually, in fact one might almost say always, missed by the casual observer. It’s not altogether a matter of training, either, but of instinct. Possibly there’s not one man in a hundred who would have spotted that; and if I were fanciful, sir, I would hazard the opinion that the desk was trying to hide it, which is of course absurd. In fact, though I see that you yourself have been sitting here, I am sure you did not observe it. Thank you, sir, and good night! We’ll be of no further trouble now.”

This oration being delivered in his very best manner, and the dignity of his profession thus established, Mr. Jarrad retired. When the steps died out, Derrick looked for himself. Close under the lamp he discerned a shadowy blotch of irregular shape, a rough pool with a tone a shade darker than the leather. It had apparently been subjected to hard rubbing. It was a discoloration of no particular hue, but as he gazed he knew without doubt that it had been made two years previously by the life-blood of Henry Millicent.

CHAPTER III THE MAN FROM THE EAST

THE MAN FROM THE EAST

A WEEK passed at Beech Lodge, while Derrick endeavored to get down to work; but in spite of every effort, progress seemed impossible. Ideas, when they came, were illusory; his characters imbued themselves with strange aspirations and qualities, and plot after plot was displaced by the secret but constantly strengthening conviction that this novel was not, for the present at any rate, the most important thing in life. More than ever he was fascinated by Millicent’s study and the nameless advances seemingly made by the portrait of its late owner, and sat at the big desk for hours, fingering his pen, grasping at thoughts that continually eluded him. By the end of the second week he was assured 

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