We settled down in our chairs, eager and expectant. I think Baddeley shared my feelings now. What were we going to hear that would throw light on the affair?

“You’ve acted very decently all the way through, Baddeley, I’ll say that for you, and I appreciate it as a compliment that we’re running this little ‘confab’ now. I realize that to a certain extent, you have come to me for help—well, I’ll give you some. You said just now you were going to put your cards on the table. Perhaps you thought that I held some trumps too.” He paused and waited for the Inspector to reply. But the answer was some little time in coming. Baddeley shifted uneasily in his seat as though he didn’t altogether approve of Anthony’s opening remarks. Then somewhat grudgingly it seemed to me he answered the question that had been put to him.

“Well—perhaps I did, Mr. Bathurst.” Then, as though he realized partly that he was exposing himself to charge of churlishness, he made the amende.

“You see, Mr. Bathurst, I’ve developed a certain amount of admiration for you.”
230

Anthony smiled. “Then we know where and how we stand. In the first place, Inspector—a question. When were you last in the billiard room?”

“Yesterday—Wednesday.”

“Care for a jaunt up there now? I’ll show you something.”

Baddeley looked surprised, but accepted the invitation with alacrity. We ascended the stairs—I knew well what the journey meant for us.

“Billiards”—said Anthony, with an air—“have lapsed into disfavor since Prescott was found murdered. A very natural consequence, I submit. Sir Charles and Jack have kept away, Arkwright has had a nasty attack of muscular rheumatism in his right arm—Mary Considine and Helen have given the room a miss. But Bill and I fancied a game. I fancy it was on Tuesday. Shortly after we started—one of us potted the red rather brilliantly—modesty prevents me telling you which of us it was, Inspector—are you interested?”

Baddeley eyed him studiously—but refrained from replying.

“That was the pocket”—he indicated it—“where the balls are now. Do you mind putting your hand in and sending them out? Thank you, Inspector. Now feel in the pocket.”

I watched Baddeley’s look of amazement as he thrust in his hand. Barker’s I.O.U. was still lying where we had replaced it. He took it and smoothed it out, his look of amazement deepening.

“You found this here?” he gasped. “When? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
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“Come now, Inspector. Recriminations weren’t part of our bargain. We found this, Cunningham and I, exactly as I have indicated—I am not pretending that I found it because I was looking for it—it was entirely fortuitous.”

Baddeley made no reply. He read and reread the writing. Then tapping it with his forefinger: “Here’s the motive—gentlemen. The very link for which I’ve been searching. Prescott was murdered for possession of this I.O.U., and the murderer in his haste or excitement dropped or lost the very object he wanted to obtain.” Then to us—“don’t you think so?”

“I ought to tell you, Inspector,” Anthony answered, “that I don’t quite know the actual position that this piece of envelope was occupying in the pocket when I found it. Don’t look mystified! I sent the balls flying from the pocket with the flat of my hand, before I discovered the I.O.U. Therefore, you understand, I don’t know for certain if it was down the side of the pocket say—or right at the bottom—under the billiard balls! Get me?”

“Yes, I understand that. You think the paper’s position important?”

“Very. For instance, if I could definitely assert that it occupied the latter position, I should incline to the opinion that it had been hidden there—not accidentally dropped.”

Baddeley rubbed the ridge of his jaw with his knuckles.
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“Yes—that’s sound reasoning,” he admitted. “But why hide it? Why murder to get it—and then hide it? That beats me—it does.”

“It wants a bit of working out,” chuckled Anthony. “Still, there’s nothing more to be gained by staying up here. Hang on to that precious piece of paper and let’s get back to the library.”

Baddeley followed us out of the room.

“On second thoughts,” interposed Anthony, “come upstairs once more and not down. Come on, Bill. Come on, Baddeley. There’s something else I want to tell you.”

He showed the way to Prescott’s bedroom, while Baddeley trailed along in apparent discomfiture.

“You’ll not be able to hand me out any surprise packets in here, Mr. Bathurst. I went through Prescott’s belongings pretty thoroughly.”

“I’ll give you credit for that,” laughed Anthony. “So don’t worry on that score. I’m going to take you farther than this room—but only just a little farther. Come into the bathroom.”

We made our way—I bringing up the rear. Anthony fished in his pocket and produced the cigar stub that he had so carefully preserved. He passed it on to our companion. “See that cigar end, Baddeley? That was found on the edge of this wash-stand basin—I found it there, and on this occasion I do know where it was lying.” He pointed to the spot. “And I’ll tell you this”—he continued. “As far as either of us can say—we don’t think it’s one of Sir Charles Considine’s—it’s certainly not one of his customary brand.”
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“Been smoked by a man with jolly good teeth,” remarked the Inspector as he studied it closely. “Prescott hims............