about him. There, as Stainsby had said, was some good furniture; Gregson had certainly got a bargain in getting business and belongings for three hundred pounds—to Wedgwood's thinking that wholly inadequate price was a sure proof of Thomas's desire to conclude the transaction and get away. But what Wedgwood wanted was something that would give him an idea of where it was that Thomas had gone or was going. And suddenly he made a discovery, or rather a suggestion was thrust upon him. On a side-table, at the miscellaneous contents of which he threw a casual glance, lay a small pile of those ornate and well-illustrated pamphlets the great shipping companies issue and spread broadcast. And amongst them was something more pertinent to his business—a number of Cunard labels, some for use on cabin trunks, some for heavier luggage to be consigned below. Perhaps not much in these things . . . but it looked as if Thomas Wraypoole had not only been contemplating an Atlantic voyage but had been given a handful of labels for his baggage. What Wedgwood now handled were the labels that had not been wanted.
After a further general look round the sitting-room, the detective passed on to the bedrooms. He opened the door of one which was obviously Stainsby's—he recognized a suit of the ap-
