I walked back to Thring's house in Alexandra Road, full of serious reflections.
The word "Riddle" kept recurring to me. I had certainly seen it several times recently, but where, I could not for the life of me recollect.
Suddenly, just as I entered the house, I remembered. I had noticed it in an advertisement in the Morning Post.
I rushed into the waiting-room, where a copy of that day's paper lay upon the table and searched it.
Yes! In the "agony" column was an advertisement—a copy of those very words written upon that discarded scrap of paper—a declaration that "The Wasp" could no longer sting!
Half an hour later I drove in Thring's car down to the office of the paper in the Strand, and there searched diligently through the files for the past six months.
In them I found nearly a dozen different cryptic communications to "Riddle," but so carefully worded that of none could the actual meaning be determined.
Unknown to Wills, I had, while in that house of mystery, made one discovery. I had found in one of the leather seats of the
