"Man of about fifty, under middle height, inclined to be stout, unusually bald."
"It ain't much to go by, is it?" Bell sighed. "We don't so much as know if he was clean shaved or not."
"He was, I think. I saw no trace of facial hair. But it's rash to argue from not finding things. And he might have been shaved after he was killed."
"And then smashed? My Lord! And they smashed him thorough too, didn't they?"
"Very logical bit of crime, Bell."
"Logical! God bless my soul! But I mean to say, sir, we haven't got much to go on. Suppose I advertise there's a man of fifty missing, rather short and stout and bald, I shall look a bit of an ass."
"Well, I wouldn't advertise. He'd had an operation, by the way—on the ear. But I wouldn't say that either. In fact, I wouldn't say anything about him just yet. Hold your trumps."
"Trumps? What is trumps then, Mr. Fortune?"
"Anything you know is always trumps."
"You'll excuse me, but it's not my experience, sir."
They came to Montmorency House, where detectives were already domesticated with the porter, and had done the obvious things. The body, it was to be presumed, had fallen from one of the windows opening on the well. The men who had flats round the well were all accounted for, save one Mr. Rand,
