my own wits I was prepared to be cheerful about it.

My next thought was whether Scudder had any papers about him
to give me a better clue to the business. I drew back the table-cloth
and searched his pockets, for I had no longer any shrinking from
the body. The face was wonderfully calm for a man who had been
struck down in a moment. There was nothing in the breast-pocket,
and only a few loose coins and a cigar-holder in the waistcoat. The
trousers held a little penknife and some silver, and the side pocket
of his jacket contained an old crocodile-skin cigar-case. There was
no sign of the little black book in which I had seen him making
notes. That had no doubt been taken by his murderer.

But as I looked up from my task I saw that some drawers had
been pulled out in the writing-table. Scudder would never have left
them in that state, for he was the tidiest of mortals. Someone must
have been searching for something--perhaps for the pocket-book.

I went round the flat and found that everything had been ransacked
--the inside of books, drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the
pockets of the clothes in my wardrobe, and the sideboard in the
dining-room. There was no trace of the book. Most likely the enemy
had found it, but they had not found it on Scudder's body.

Then I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of the British
Isles. My notion was to get off to some wild district, where my
veldcraft would be of some use to me, for I would be like a trapped
rat in a city. I considered that Scotland would be best, for my
people were Scotch and I could pass anywhere as an ordinary
Scotsman. I had half an idea at first to be a German tourist, for my