you've been here."

Merriman agreed, and soon the two friends were seated at another
open window in the small but comfortable sitting-room of the flat.

They chatted for some time, and then Hilliard turned the conversation
to the story Merriman had told in the club.

"You know," he said, knocking the ash carefully off his cigar, "I
was rather interested in that tale of yours. It's quite an
intriguing little mystery. I suppose it's not possible that you
could have made a mistake about those numbers?"

Merriman laughed.

"I'm not exactly infallible, and I have, once or twice in my life,
made mistakes. But I don't think I made one this time. You see,
the only question is the number at the bridge. The number at the
mill is certain. My attention was drawn to it, and I looked at it
too often for there to be the slightest doubt. It was No. 3 as
certainly as I'm alive. But the number at the bridge is different.
There was nothing to draw my attention to it, and I only glanced at
it casually. I would say that I was mistaken about it only for one
thing. It was a black figure on a polished brass ground, and I
particularly remarked that the black lines were very wide, leaving
an unusually small brass triangle in the center. If I noticed that,
it must have been a 4."

Hilliard nodded.