"Dope," said Alleyn. "I thought he was still at it. Let me see." He examined the packet closely. "It's the same as the lot we got from Sniffy Quarles," he said. "'Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.' "

"That's right," said Inspector Fox, and returned to the bathroom.

"I adore Fox," said Alleyn. "He's the perfect embodiment, the last loveliest expression, of horse sense. There is nothing in this chest of drawers, nor in any of the pockets of Mr. Surbonadier's suits, except—hullo, what's this?"

It was another letter, this time a very humble affair, written on common paper. Alleyn handed it to Nigel, who read:

"Dear Mr. Surbonadier, please don't take no more notice of me because I'm sorry about what I done and Dad's that angry he found out and Bert is a decent fellow so I told him, and he's forgiven me but if you ever look at me agen he says he will do for you so please do not look at me and oblige yours sincerly Trixie. p.s. I said nothink about getting them little parcels but will not get any more T."

"Who's Bert?" asked Nigel.

"Albert Hickson is the property master's name," said Alleyn.

"One up to Fox," said Nigel.

"He'll think so—yes. So Trixie got it for him. I must see Trixie again."

He got a chair, put it by the wardrobe and stood on it. Then he reached up and groped at the back of the top shelf.

"Stand by!" he said suddenly.

Nigel hurried to his side. From behind a leather hat box Alleyn drew out a small tin, very sturdily made, and bound with iron.

"That's what we're looking for," he said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Contents of an Iron-Bound Box

"HOW THE DEVIL did you know he had this?" asked Nigel.

Alleyn climbed down from his perch, put his hand in his pocket and produced a small key hanging on a lone, very fine, steel chain.

"We found this round his neck. It suggested something of the sort to me. These boxes are made by one particular firm and the keys are rather individual. Now let us open it."

He inserted the little key and turned it twice. The lock gave a sharp click and opened. Alleyn lifted the lid.

"More paper," said Nigel.

"Yes. Wait a moment."

Alleyn put the box down on the glass top of the dressing-table. From his pocket he took two pairs of tweezers and, using them delicately, lifted out a sheet of blue notepaper. It was folded. He opened it up carefully, and bent over it. Nigel heard him draw in his breath.

"Don't touch it," he said, "but look."

And Nigel looked. On the paper two words were written over and over again:

"Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford."