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ing' in Cornwall. I remember a very interesting conversation I had with a man down there in the Lugger Inn at Fowey———"

"You were going to tell us something about a clue," said Gordon gently.

"Ah yes: one of them came up to me afterwards—it was the one they call Ginger. I wonder why are boys with red hair called Ginger? Ginger is of a greenish-yellow tinge, if you come to think of it. Where was I? Yes, he came up to me with a photograph, and told me that it had fallen out of one of the pockets as they carried the body. That is almost impossible, you know, for a man always carries photographs in his breast pocket, and a thing can't fall out of a man's breast pocket unless you turn him upside down and shake him. Ginger was obviously scared at the thought that he might be concealing a clue—he referred to it as a 'clue' himself—and did not care to give it to the police; so he handed it over to me."

"And you?"

"I have it here in my pocket—the breast pocket, observe. To tell the truth, I am a little absent-minded, and it was only during the inquest that I remembered the photograph; it seemed to me too late then to mention anything about it in public."

"Carmichael," said Gordon very seriously, "if you don't produce that photograph it will, I gather, be necessary to turn you upside down and shake you."

"Of course, of course." Carmichael fumbled in