"There's a good deal that's painful. They start off in her best leading-lady manner—all ecstasy and style, and fashionable dalliance. Then he must have shown up in his true colours. She is horrified by something, but still rather mannered and flowery. She keeps it up until about a week—no—two days ago. Then there are two little notes. 'Please let's stop, Arthur. I'm sorry. I can't help it if I've changed,' and the signature. That was written two days ago. The last, which is in a different key, was actually sent yesterday morning."

"Carrying on with him and Mr. Gardener together, seemingly," said Fox; "but I don't see that it helps."

"I'm afraid it does help a little," Alleyn rejoined. "Ah well—on with the hunt."

At last the contents of the desk were exhausted, and Alleyn led them to the spare bedroom, where the search began again and went on wearily. The Yard men were terribly thorough. Finally they unearthed an old trunk that had been put away in the wardrobe. Nigel switched the lights on and drew the curtains. It was already beginning to get dark in the room. Alleyn opened the trunk. Here they found letters from a great many women, but beyond throwing a little extra light on Mr. Surbonadier's unsavoury character, they were of no value.

At the bottom were two old newspapers, carefully folded. Alleyn pounced on one, shook it open, and folded it back. Fox and Nigel looked over his shoulder and read in flaring capitals the single word "Cocaine!" and underneath: "Amazing revelation of the illicit drug trade. Fool's Paradise—and after."

The paper was the Morning Express of March, 1929.

"The story itself!" shouted Nigel. "Look, Alleyn, look! And there's Wakeford's signature, reproduced across the top."

"Was that done with all his articles?"

"I think so. All the middle-page, special articles. The 'Mex' always did it."

"It's quite a clear-cut reproduction," said Alleyn. "Good enough to forge from, any day. And an easy one to copy, too."

"Of course," said Fox slowly, "the deceased would be interested even if he had no hand in the matter."

"Quite so," agreed Alleyn absently. He read some of the letterpress. "It certainly points very directly at Saint," he said. "There's another paper left. That will be the account of the libel action."

"You're quite right, sir—it is."

"Yes. Well, now we turn to little Arthur's bedroom. We are looking for a small strong box. Perhaps a cash box. What are you staring at, Bathgate?"

"You," said Nigel simply.

The bedroom was extremely ornate, and smelt of stale incense. "Quite disgusting," muttered Alleyn, and opened a window. They set to work again, leaving Fox to deal with the bathroom. He made the first discovery—a hypodermic syringe in the cupboard above the basin. Nigel found another in the bedside-table drawer, and with it a little oblong packet.