"If you can only find out whose property that is," she suggested.
Wedgwood gave her a benevolent glance.
"You do well to say 'if,' ma'am!" he answered. "You know the old rhyme about if's and but's and apples and nuts, I dare say? However———"
He carried his parcel back to the police-station, where the inspector locked it up in company with the manuscript found in the street. And that done Wedgwood went to get his dinner at his favourite haunt, and after he had satisfied his appetite he smoked his pipe over a cup of coffee and gave himself up to thinking. The result of his thinking sent him down to Wandsworth Road, in quest of Thomas Wraypoole.
The oil and colour establishment of Thomas Wraypoole turned out to be a warehouse; above it were rooms evidently used as a private residence. The door of the warehouse was closed when the detective approached it, but there was another close by, and this, on his ringing its bell, was opened to him by a smart-looking young woman who eyed him narrowly as he raised his hat to her.
"Mr. Wraypoole anywhere about!" asked Wedgwood. "The warehouse seems to be closed."
