I’ve got a sort—sort of idea he said it would prove something about how Mr Luker was a murderer, but——Oh, I don’t know!” “Is that all you can remember?” “Yes. Everything,” she said despairingly. “But doesn’t it help you ? I mean, it’s quite a lot for me to remember, really, and you’re so clever, you ought to be able to think of something——” The Saint might have hit her on the nose. He might have taken her neck in his two hands and wrung it out like a sponge. It stands to the credit of his self-control that he did neither of those things. Instead he did something so free from deliberate thought that it might have been almost instinctive, and yet which afterwards he was tempted to think must have been inspired. He couldn’t conscientiously pride himself on thinking so accurately and so far ahead. But he knew that that photograph must be a vital part of the secret, if not the most vital part; and he knew that the negative mattered far more than the print.
