Bray came in about eight o’clock and a few minutes later I heard another man ascend the stairs.  I was shaving at the time, but I quickly completed the operation and, slipping on a bathrobe, hurried up to the captain’s rooms.  The younger brother had seen to the removal of the unfortunate man’s body in the night, and, aside from Bray and the stranger who had arrived almost simultaneously with him, there was no one but a sleepy-eyed constable there.

Bray’s greeting was decidedly grouchy.  The stranger, however—­a tall bronzed man—­made himself known to me in the most cordial manner.  He told me he was Colonel Hughes, a close friend of the dead man; and that, unutterably shocked and grieved, he had come to inquire whether there was anything he might do.  “Inspector,” said I, “last night in this room you held in your hand four copies of the Daily Mail.  You tossed them into that basket as of no account.  May I suggest that you rescue those copies, as I have a rather startling matter to make clear to you?” Too grand an official to stoop to a waste-basket, he nodded to the constable.  The latter brought the papers; and, selecting one from the lot, I spread it out on the table.  “The issue of July twenty-seventh,” I said.

I pointed to an item half-way down the column of Personal Notices.  You yourself, my lady, may read it there if you happen to have saved a copy.  It ran as follows: 

“Rangoon:  The asters are in full bloom in the garden at Canterbury.  They are very beautiful—­especially the white ones.”

Bray grunted, and opened his little eyes.  I took up the issue of the following day—­the twenty-eighth: 

“Rangoon:  We have been forced to sell father’s stick-pin—­the emerald scarab he brought home from Cairo.”

I had Bray’s interest now.  He leaned heavily toward me, puffing.  Greatly excited, I held before his eyes the issue of the twenty-ninth: 

“Rangoon:  Homburg hat gone forever—­caught by a breeze—­into the river.”

“And finally,” said I to the inspector, “the last message of all, in the issue of the thirtieth of July—­on sale in the streets some twelve hours before Fraser-Freer was murdered.  See!”

“Rangoon:  To-night at ten.  Regent Street. —­Y.O.G.”

Bray was silent.

“I take it you are aware, Inspector,” I said, “that for the past two years Captain Fraser-Freer was stationed at Rangoon.”

Still he said nothing; just looked at me with those foxy little eyes that I was coming to detest.  At last he spoke sharply: 

“Just how,” he demanded, “did you happen to discover those messages?  You were not in this room last night after I left?” He turned angrily to the constable.  “I gave orders—­”

“No,” I put in; “I was not in this room.  I happened to have on file in my rooms copies of the Mail, and by the merest chance—­”

I saw that I had blundered.  Undoubtedly my discovery of those messages was too pat.  Once again suspicion looked my way.