“Why, from Van Nant’s place, of course.  It couldn’t possibly come from any other place.”

“Exactly.  And as Van Nant and Carboys lived together—­kept Bachelor Hall—­and there was never anybody but their two selves in the house at any time, why, nobody but Van Nant himself could have despatched the bird.  Look at that fragment of burnt paper lying in the basin of that candlestick on the washstand.  If that isn’t all that’s left of the paper that was tied under the pigeon’s wing, and if Carboys didn’t use it for the purpose of lighting the spirit-lamp by which he heated his shaving-water, depend upon it that, in his haste and excitement, he tucked it into his pocket, and if ever we find his body we shall find that paper on it.”

“His body?  My dear Cleek, you don’t believe that the man has been murdered?”

“I don’t know—­yet.  I shall, however, if this Van Nant puts anything in the way of my searching that house thoroughly or makes any pretence to follow me whilst I am doing so.  I want to meet this Maurice Van Nant just as soon as I can, Mr. Narkom, just as soon as I can.”

And it was barely two minutes after he had expressed this wish that Miss Morrison reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by a pale, nervous, bovine-eyed man of about thirty-five years of age, and said in a tone of agitation:  “Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Headland, but this is Mr. Maurice Van Nant.  He is most anxious to meet you, and father would have me bring him up at once.”

Narkom screwed round on his heel, looked at the Belgian, and lost faith in Miss Morrison’s powers of discrimination instantly.  On the dressing-table stood Carboys’ picture—­heavy-jowled, sleepy-eyed, dull-looking—­and on the threshold stood a man with the kindest eyes, the sweetest smile, and the handsomest and most sympathetic countenance he had seen in many a day.  If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, if the face is the index of the character, then here was a man weak as water, as easily led as any lamb, and as guileless.

“You are just the man I want to see, Mr. Van Nant,” said Cleek, after the first formalities were over, and assuming, as he always did at such times, the heavy, befogged expression of incompetence.  “I confess this bewildering affair altogether perplexes me; but you, I understand, were Mr. Carboys’ close friend and associate, and as I can find nothing in the nature of a clue here, I should like, with your permission, to look over his home quarters and see if I can find anything there.”

If he had looked for any sign of reluctance or of embarrassment upon Van Nant’s part when such a request should be made, he was wholly disappointed, for the man, almost on the point of tears, seized his hand, pressed it warmly, and said in a voice of eager entreaty:  “Oh, do, Mr. Headland, do.  Search anywhere, do anything that will serve to find my friend and to clear up this dreadful affair.  I can’t sleep for thinking of it; I can’t