that basket. Rather odd there is not so much as a book."
"I don't think he was a man of culture, the elusive Rand. But you've missed something, haven't you."
"I dare say," Bell grinned. "I generally do when you're about."
"There's not a sign the murder was done in this room."
"Oh, I saw that all right. But we hadn't any reason to think it was."
"No," Reggie sighed, "No. So tidy. So tidy." And they went into Mr. Rand's bedroom.
That also was tidy. No trace of a struggle, of blood. That also had no papers, no books, nothing personal but clothes.
"Spent a good deal at his tailor's," said Bell, looking into a well-filled wardrobe, and read out the name of a man in Savile Row. "Hallo. They're not all the same make. Some cheaper stuff. Why, what's the matter with his boots, sir?" For Reggie was taking up one pair after another.
"Nothing. All quite satisfactory. About a nine and rather broad. The corpse wore about a nine and had a broad foot. What's that about his clothes? Different tailors? Are the clothes all the same size? All made for the same man?" Suit after suit was spread out on the bed. They were to the same measure; they all were marked "W. H. Rand". "Quite satisfactory," Reggie purred. "They'd fit
