the attendants who fetched him his books. And by the by, on that table are the books he was busy with yesterday—you can look them over if you like."
Wedgwood saw little of value in this suggestion, but he was not the man to neglect any chance, and he moved over to the table and inspected a pile of volumes resting there.
"You see?" said his companion, turning the books over and directing his attention to the title-pages. "All relating to local history in Derbyshire. Every one! I told you—that's been his recent study. But why—heaven only knows! I should suggest you should get hold of some of his papers. Notes, you know—he was always making notes."
Wedgwood went away more than ever convinced that Wraypoole had been tracked to Miss Tandy's flat and done to death there by somebody who was so desirious of laying hands on the document Wraypoole had taken there for typing that he was resolved on stopping at nothing to secure it. If only Miss Tandy's memory was better about it—the description she had given of it was little more than general, and vague at that. And the murderer had got away with the document and there was no clue to his identity—unless the diamond was a clue. To be sure, Wedgwood already had a
