gain possession of a manuscript and should then lose that manuscript seemed absurd.
"Good lord!" he exclaimed, feebly. "You don't say so!"
The inspector unlocked a drawer and produced a crumpled and mud-stained roll of crown paper. Flattening it out and spreading it on his desk he pointed significantly to a label on the front.
"There you are," he said. "See that? Mortover!"
Wedgwood drew near and peered nervously at the unexpected find. It looked to him as if the manuscript had undergone rough treatment: it appeared, indeed, to have been not only dropped in the mud of the street but to have been run over by the wheel of some vehicle.
"How did it come into your hands?" he asked. "And when?"
"This morning—not ten minutes before I wired to you," answered the inspector. "A man came in here—I've got his name and address and he lives close by—and told me that he picked this up one night at the corner of Handel Street and Wakefield Street. He was a bit uncertain about the night, but after questioning him awhile I came to the conclusion that it was the evening of the murder. He was certain, however, about the time—just after
