conclude that he put them on again; and, as he wouldn’t put them on again if he were going to bed, the inference is obvious—­something caused him to dress and prepare to leave the house voluntarily.  That ‘something’ must have manifested itself very abruptly, and demanded great haste—­either that, or he expected to return; for you will observe that, although he replaced his shaving tackle in the portmanteau, he did not put his sleeping-suit back with it.  While I am poking about, do me the favour of looking in the bag, Mr. Narkom; and tell me if you find the collar and necktie there.”

“Not a trace of them,” announced the superintendent a moment or two later.  “Here are the shaving-mug, the brush, and the spirit-lamp, however, just as you suggested; and—­Hallo! what have you stumbled upon now?” For Cleek, who had been “poking about,” as he termed it, had suddenly stooped, picked up something, and was regarding it fixedly as it lay in the palm of his hand.

“A somewhat remarkable thing to discover in a lady’s bed-chamber, Mr. Narkom, unless—­Just step downstairs, and ask Miss Morrison to come up again for a moment, will you?” And then held out his hand so that Narkom could see, in passing, that a hempseed, two grains of barley, and an oat lay upon his palm.  “Miss Morrison,” he inquired as Mary returned in company with the superintendent, “Miss Morrison, do you keep pigeons?”

She gave a little cry, and clasped her hands together, as if reproaching herself for some heartless act.

“Oh!” she said, moving hastily forward toward the window.  “Poor dears!  How good of you to remind me.  To think that I should forget to feed them for three whole days.  They may be dead by now.  But at such a time I could think of nothing but this hideous mystery.  My pigeons—­my poor, pretty pigeons!”

“Oh, then you do keep them?”

“Yes; oh, yes.  In a wire-enclosed cote attached to the house just outside this window.  Homing pigeons, Mr. Headland.  George bought them for me.  We had an even half dozen each.  We used to send messages to each other that way.  He would bring his over to me, and take mine away with him at night when he went home, so we could correspond at any moment without waiting for the post.  That’s how I sent him the message about the arrival of the belt.  Oh, do unlock the window, and let me see if the pretty dears are still alive.”

“It doesn’t need to be unlocked, Miss Morrison,” he replied, as he pulled up the blind.  “See, it can be opened easily—­the catch is not secured.”

“Not secured?  Why, how strange.  I myself fastened it after I despatched the bird with the message about the belt.  And nobody came into the room after that until George did so that night.  Oh, do look and see if the pretty creatures are dead.  They generally coo so persistently; and now I don’t hear a sound from them.”