the corpse all right. Pretty different styles, though. He dressed to look different at different times. He is elusive, is W. H. Rand."
They began to open drawers. There was the same abundance, the same variety of styles in Mr. Rand's hosiery. "Yes, he meant to be elusive," Reggie murmured. "Anything from a bookmaker to a churchwarden at a funeral. 16½ collars, though. And that's the measure of the corpse. Is all the linen marked?"
It was, and with ink, so that the mark could only be removed by taking out a piece of the stuff. "If the corpse is Rand, where the devil did his shirt come from?" said Reggie. "The slayer unpicked the name from his coat. That was one of the Savile Row suits. But the shirt? Did the slayer bring a change of linen with him? Provident fellow, very provident."
Bell, on his knees by a chest of drawers, gave a grunt. "Lord, here's a drawer tumbled. And that's the first yet. It's new stuff, too—not worn."
Reggie bent over him and whistled. "Not marked. Same sort of stuff as the corpse wears. And the drawer's left untidy. The first untidy drawer. Well, well. Everybody breaks down somewhere. He began to be untidy then. When he got to the shirt and the vest." He shivered and turned away to the window. "This damned place looks out on the well," he cried out, and turned back and sat down. "Bah!
