“That is possible,” said Thorndyke: “though I don’t quite see how it would have happened. I notice that his pockets seem to have been emptied⁠—no, wait; here is something in the waistcoat pocket.”

He drew out a shabby, pigskin card-case and a stump of lead pencil, at which latter he looked with what seemed to me much more interest than was deserved by so commonplace an object.

“The cards, you observe,” said he, “are printed from type, not from a plate. I would note that fact. And tell me what you make of that.”

He handed me the pencil, which I examined with concentrated attention, helping myself even with the lamp and my pocket lens. But even with these aids I failed to discover anything unusual in its appearance. Thorndyke watched me with a mischievous smile, and, when I had finished, inquired:

“Well; what is it?”