Winter so nearly lost his temper that he repressed the retort on his
lips. He contented himself, however, with producing a small white
object from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Theydon. It was a
bit of ivory, hollow, and very light, and fashioned as a skull.

Yet, it was by no means an ordinary creation. The artist who fashioned
it had gratified a morbid taste by imparting to the eyeless sockets
and close-set rows of teeth a malign and threatening grin. Wickedness,
not death, was suggested, but the craftsmanship was faultless. A
collector would have paid a large sum for it, while the average
citizen would refuse to have it in his house.

"What an extraordinary thing," said Theydon, turning the curio round
and round in his fingers.

"It's wonderfully well carved," agreed Winter.

"From that point of view it's a masterpiece, but what I meant was the
astounding fact that it should have been discovered on the dead
woman's body. Was it placed over her heart?"

"Why do you ask that?" came the sharp demand.

"Because-- if it is a token of some vendetta-- if the murderer wished
to signify that he had glutted his vengeance--"

"O, you're as bad as Furneaux," cried Winter impatiently. "Give it to
me. I must be off. The hour is long past midnight and I have a busy
day before me tomorrow."