brusqueness.

"I don't know what you mean," I answered in despair. "I never saw
the plates. I know nothing about them."






CHAPTER IV.

THE STORY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS





The Inspector scanned me close for a few minutes in silence. He
seemed doubtful, suspicious. At last he made a new move. "I believe
you, Miss Callingham," he said, more gently. "I can see this train
of thought distresses you too much. But I can see, too, our best
chance lies in supplying you with independent clues which you may
work out for yourself. You must re-educate your memory. You want to
know all about this murder, of course. Well, now, look over these
papers. They'll tell you in brief what little we know about it. And
they may succeed in striking afresh some resonant chord in your
memory."

He handed me a book of pasted newspaper paragraphs, interspersed