sticks escaped, Hewitt snatched one up and scrutinised it closely.
"Do you see the tin ferrule?" he said. "It has been a brush; and that was a box of colours! " He pointed to the cinder at his feet. "That being so," he went on, "that paper and card was probably a sketch-book. Brett! come outside a bit. There's something amazing here!"
We went outside, and Hewitt faced me with a curious expression that for the life of me I could not understand.
"Suppose," he said, "that Mr. Victor Peytral is not dead after all?"
"Not dead?" I gasped; "but—but he is! We know"
"It seems to me," Hewitt pursued, with his eyes still fixed on mine, "that we know very little indeed of this affair, as yet. The body was unrecognisable, or very near it. You remember what the coachman said? 'If it wasn't for Mr. Peytral's being missing,' he said, 'I doubt if they'd have known it was him at all.' I think those were his exact words. More, you must remember that the body has not been seen by either of Peytral's relatives."
"But then," I protested, "if it isn't his body whose is it?"
"Ah, indeed," Hewitt responded, "whose is it
