“There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son’s hand-writing.”
“Which means that it is not of much use,” said the Inspector. ‘Now if it had been in the burglar’s———”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense! None the less, I should be curious to see it.”
The Inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket-book.
“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he, with some pomposity. “That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five years’ experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the chance of finger-marks or something.”
Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
“What do you make of it, Inspector?”
“Scems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”
“It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale,” said Holmes. “You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?”
“Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!”
“It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir; it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got.”
