office with his coat and bag, and gave him a significant glance.
"Off?" he asked.
"Going to catch the ten twenty-five for Derby at St. Pancras," replied Wedgwood. "Plenty of time, though. Anything you want me for?"
The inspector beckoned him into an inner room, with the air of a man who has something alike pertinent and mysterious to impart.
"Seen this morning's papers?" he asked.
"No," answered Wedgwood. "No time, so far—see 'em in the train. Why—anything in them?"
The inspector produced a copy of the Times and spread it out on a table. "Look at that!" he said. "There's something to ponder over—considering what we know already."
Wedgwood bent over the page spread before him: a page invariably devoted in the Times to advertising the prospectuses of new companies. And there, headed by great, block letters, running across the width of three columns he saw an advertisement that made his eyes open to their widest: He slowly muttered the wording of the first lines:
"A copy of this Prospectus has been filed with the Registrar of Joint Stock Companies.
