“I need not appear in the matter at all,” said Holmes to the evident relief of our melancholy acquaintance. “If I can clear it up I don’t ask to have my name mentioned.”

“Well, it’s very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr. Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I’d breathe it to no soul but you.” He looked round as though he hardly dare utter the words. “Don’t you think there might be a case against Mr. Neil Gibson himself?”

“I have been considering that.”

“You’ve not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his pistol, you know.”

“Was that clearly made out?”

“Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had.”

“One of a pair? Where is the other?”

“Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another. We never quite matched that particular pistol — but the box was made for two.”

“If it was one of a pair pair you should surely be able to match it.”

“Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look them over.”

“Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at the scene of the tragedy.”

This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant Coventry’s humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.

“That was where Mrs. Gibson’s body lay. I marked it by that stone.”

“I understand that you were there before it was moved?”

“Yes, they sent for me at once.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be moved until the police should arrive.”

“That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot was fired from close quarters.”

“Yes, sir, very close.”

“Near the right temple?”

“Just behind it, sir.”

“How did the body lie?”

“On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand.”

"Don't you think, monsieur le secretaire-general, that this broken bit of ivory which was picked up on the ground... "

"No, M. Nicole, no. That bit of ivory belongs to something which we do not know and which its owner will at once make it his business to conceal. In order to trace the owner, we should at least be able to define the nature of the thing itself."

M. Nicole reflected and then began:

"Monsieur le secretaire-general, when Napoleon I fell from power... "

"Oh, M. Nicole, oh, a lesson in French history!"

"Only a sentence, monsieur le secretaire-general, just one sentence which I will ask your leave to complete. When Napoleon I fell from power, the Restoration placed a certain number of officers on half-pay. These officers were suspected by the authorities and kept under observation by the police. They remained faithful to the emperor's memory; and they contrived to reproduce the features of their idol on all sorts of objects of everyday use; snuff-boxes, rings, breast-pins, pen-knives and so on."

"Well?"

"Well, this bit comes from a walking-stick, or rather a sort of loaded cane, or life-preserver, the knob of which is formed of a piece of carved ivory. When you look at the knob in a certain way, you end by seeing that the outline represents the profile of the Little Corporal. hat you have in your hand, monsieur le secretaire-general, is a bit of the ivory knob at the top of a half-pay officer's life-preserver."

"Yes," said Prasville, examining the exhibit, "yes, I can make out a profile... but I don't see the inference... "

"The inference is very simple. Among Daubrecq's victims, among those whose names are inscribed on the famous list, is the descendant of a Corsican family in Napoleon's service, which derived its wealth and title from the emperor and was afterward ruined under the Restoration. It is ten to one that this descendant, who was the leader of the Bonapartist party a few years ago, was the fifth person hiding in the motor-car. Need I state his name?"

"The Marquis d'Albufex?" said Prasville.

"The Marquis d'Albufex," said M. Nicole.

M. Nicole, who no longer seemed in the least worried with his hat, his glove and his umbrella, rose and said to Prasville:

"Monsieur le secretaire-general, I might have kept my discovery to myself, and not told you of it until after the final victory, that is, after bringing you the list of the Twenty-seven. But matters are urgent. Daubrecq's disappearance, contrary to what his kidnappers expect, may hasten on the catastrophe which you wish to avert. We must therefore act with all speed. Monsieur le secretaire-general, I ask for your immediate and practical assistance."

"In what way can I help you?" asked Prasville, who was beginning to be impressed by his quaint visitor.

"By giving me, to-morrow, those particulars about the Marquis d'Albufex which it would take me personally several days to collect."

Prasville seemed to hesitate and turned his head toward Mme. Mergy. Clarisse said:

"I beg of you to accept M. Nicole's services. He is an invaluable and devoted ally. I will answer for him as I would for myself."