He pointed to two almost invisible pin scratches.
The manager started, and took the watch again quickly.
"Two semicircles crossed? By Jove, so there are I The marks are so old and worn that I didn't notice them. You've good eyes, Inspector."
"I look at what is before me," was the quiet reply, which the salesman greeted as a sally of wit.
"Ha, ha! We all do that, I suppose. Well, to tell you the truth, that happens to be an old private mark of our own."
"Just so. You changed it some twenty years ago."
"Oh—ah! You certainly are well up in your work! If you sit down again for a moment I'll make inquiries."
Some time went by before the manager returned.
"I can't trace the watch in the least. I think that mark must be a mistake, or a joke, though it's our own mark right enough." He was obviously puzzled.
"Could it be a watch you lent a customer in place of one left to be mended? Or what about your branch establishment in Bond Street?"
The manager left him alone again and returned to say that he thought the Chief Inspector's suggestion highly probable, but that they had no record, even so, of the watch on their books. He recommended him to try their branch.
Pointer thanked him and took another taxi.
At Bond Street he found that the manager had 'phoned, and he was shown at once into a little room where he found a salesman waiting for him.
"Chief Inspector Pointer? We've been going over our books. I think I may be able to help you."
The police-officer handed him his treasure. The man opened the case.
"Yes, this is a watch I let a young gentleman have"—he laid it down and ran his finger along a ledger—"last Saturday morning. As a rule, we furnish no watches to our customers, but in this case we supplied him with one as a makeshift for his own very valuable repeater."
"Was this the young gentleman?" Pointer held out Eames' photo. The salesman identified him after a long scrutiny. "He wore a brown tweed suit and a soft brown felt hat."
"That's him," muttered Pointer, drawing a deep breath.
"He gave the name of Eames. But his repeater, I have it here, has another family's coat of arms engraved on the back. Do you know anything about heraldry, Inspector?"
"A little."
"Well, of course, we have to, and besides—well frankly, the repeater was of a very superior kind, and the young man's clothes were not quite in keeping, you know what I mean?"
Pointer secretly damned any interest in clothes just then.
"Oh, quite! And the crest was?"
"I recognized it at once, but as a mere matter of form I looked it up, as I thought it is that of the Perthshire branch of the Erskine family. Here is the repeater." He laid it down beside the Scotland Yard man.
"And now, I presume, I may take back this. And what about the charge for the spring we supplied?"
Pointer assured him that that would doubtless be settled by the family. He asked the salesman how it was that he had missed the offer of a reward for the watch, and whether he had not noticed any likeness between his customer and the picture of the "Hotel suicide," let alone the name of Eames which had been given in the Press. The shopman smiled a little wearily.
"Stocktaking," was his laconic excuse, "and besides our three lending watches don't go by number any more. They're too ancient for that."
Pointer left the shop with a buoyant tread just as the shutters went up.
The Yard has its own short cuts, and after a couple of hours of strenuous trunk-calls, he was able to get into touch with a certain solicitor, a Mr. Russell, of Russell and Son, of Perth, who, when driven into a corner, finally admitted that he acted, since his father's retirement, as legal adviser to the particular branch of Erskines in whom the Yard was interested.
"It's about young Erskine who's come over from Canada lately—"
This seemed to galvanize the man at the other end. So much so that it was some time before Pointer could get his query through the Scotsman's ejaculations.
"He's dead. Suicide apparently. Could you identify the body?" With many repetitions he got a general description of "Eames" over the line. The watch clinched it. The invisible Russell said he would come to town by the earliest possible train. Then followed a little difference of opinion as to the exact meaning of that term, Russell pointing out that he said the earliest possible, while Pointer maintained time-tables to be the only standard. He won finally, and Mr. Russell agreed to take the midnight express south, leaving his office in the hands of his father.
He arrived at the Yard late the following afternoon, and almost in silence the two men drove to the chamber where "Eames" still lay in his patent ice-coffin.
Russell recognized him at once, and the Scotsman's air of almost suspicious reserve—as that of a man whose valuable time might be wasted—left him. Seated in the Chief Inspector's room at the Yard over a glass of his own mixing, Mr. Russell told all that he knew of the young man.
"You're quite sure, Mr. Russell, that you recognize the corpse?"
Pointer was writing swiftly. So was Watts.
"Aye, only too sure. I knew him as a boy well enough, and besides he's the very image of his father." He stared ruminatingly out of the window. "It's not easy to know how much I ought to tell you, Inspector Pointer. Under ordinary circumstances I should, of course, say nothing till I had talked with Mrs. Erskine—poor leddy! poor, poor leddy!—but as you say time is important—well, I've thought it over well coming down here, and I've decided to tell you the whole family story as far as it concerns young Robert Erskine. Their branch has been settled in Perthshire since the battle of Flodden Field. His father—Mr. Henry Erskine—was the owner of a fine bit of land and fortune. He sold all the land long ago, all but a park with the dower-house in it which was included in his wife's settlements. She had a property of her own, too, and comes of an equally good house. She was an Abercrombie and is still alive. The father is dead. The marriage, I fancy, was not an over great success. She is a quiet, deeply religious body, and Mr. Erskine—well, he liked concerts, and operas, and paintings, and travelling. He had one younger brother Ian who had bought a large ranch in Canada, and seventeen years ago—Robert was then twelve—Mr. Erskine and his son went on a year's visit to this brother. While there—I think it was only after a couple of months,—Mr. Henry Erskine was thrown from his horse and killed. By his will—I have a copy of it here with me—he left the use of his property to his wife during her life-time with remainder to his son should he outlive her. In case of Robert Erskine's death, before his mother, half was to become his wife's possession absolutely, and the other half goes to found art scholarships in Perth. In case both son and wife were dead, the estate, it was worth about seven thousand a year at the time of Mr. Erskine's death, and has since greatly appreciated—to be split up into various art scholarships at Scotch towns. His brother, Ian Erskine was a wealthy man, a bachelor, who had expressed his intention—in writing—of leaving his entire fortune to his only nephew Robert. Do I make myself quite clear?"
"Oh, quite," breathed the two police officers, who were lapping up the information thirstily.
"This uncle was appointed the boy's guardian, and Robert was to remain with him until he should be of age. By that time Mr. Ian Erskine had died, too, leaving his fortune as he had promised, I understand, and Robert stayed on at the Four Winds Ranch near Calgary. We had very little indeed to do with him after his father's death. I presume he preferred to employ his uncle's man of business. I doubt but that he takes after his father and is a bit careless with money, for over two months ago, on May 20th to be exact, Mrs. Erskine instructed me to send Robert £1,000. I was abroad for my holidays at the time, so I went to see her. Mrs. Erskine lives in France for the sake of her health. She left Scotland shortly after her husband and son went to Canada and