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the half-inch of print indicated by Craddock's finger.
    “H'm, yes, somewhat unusual.”
    “Any line on who inserted this advertisement?” asked Rydesdale.
    “By the description, sir, it was handed in by Rudi Scherz himself - on Wednesday.”
    “Nobody questioned it? The person who accepted it, didn't think it odd?”
    “The adenoidal blonde who receives the advertisements is quite incapable of thinking, I should say, sir. She just counted the words and took the money.”
    “What was the idea?” asked Sir Henry.
    “Get a lot of the locals curious,” suggested Rydesdale.
    “Get them all together at a particular place at a particular time, then hold them up and relieve them of their spare cash and valuables. As an idea, it's not without originality.”
    “What sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?” asked Sir Henry.
    “A large sprawling picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shop - two teashops. Self-consciously a beauty spot. Caters for the motoring tourist. Also highly residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times.”
    “I know,” said Sir Henry. “Nice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they'd all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldn't she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be.”
    “Who's your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?”
    “No,” Sir Henry sighed. “She's no relation.” He said reverently: “She's just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil.”
    He turned upon Craddock.
    “Don't you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy,” he said. “In case this turns out to be a high powered mystery, which I don't suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!”
    “I'll bear that in mind, sir,” said Detective-Inspector Craddock in his most formal manner, and nobody would have guessed that Dermot Eric Craddock was actually Sir Henry's godson and was on easy and intimate terms with his godfather.
    Rydesdale gave a quick outline of the case to his friend.
    “They'd all turn up at 6:30, I grant you that,” he said. “But would that Swiss fellow know they would? And another thing, would they be likely to have much loot on them to be worth the taking?”
    “A couple of old-fashioned brooches, a string of seed pearls - a little loose change, perhaps a note or two - not more,” said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. “Did this Miss Blacklog keep much money in the house?”
    “She says not, sir. Five pounds odd, I understand.”
    “Mere chicken feed,” said Rydesdale.
    “What you're getting at,” said Sir Henry, “is that this fellow liked to playact - it wasn't the loot, it was the fun of playing and acting the hold-up. Cinema stuff? Eh? It's quite possible. How did he manage to shoot himself?”
    Rydesdale drew a paper towards him.
    “Preliminary medical report. The revolver was discharged at close range - singeing... h'm... nothing to show whether accident or suicide. Could have been done deliberately, or he could have tripped and fallen and the revolver which he was holding close to him could have gone off... Probably the latter.” He looked at Craddock. “You'll have to question the witnesses very carefully and make them say exactly what they saw.”
    Detective-Inspector Craddock said sadly: “They'll all have seen something different.”
    “It's always interested me,” said Sir Henry, “what people do see at a moment of intense excitement and nervous strain. What they do