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help of his shaving-powder puffer, loaded in readiness with raw material from the vacuum-cleaner; and then, leaving a fine, sharp imprint, replace the remaining candlestick in its proper position.
    “I myself found the puffer on my surreptitious visit to your cousin’s bedroom, By then he’d had time to wash it out and refill it with shaving powder; but at least it was there —and also I was able to make a note of the brand of shaving-powder he used…
    “The dust surrounding the supposed imprint of the stolen candlestick—which happily he hadn’t a chance to tamper with—was thereupon sent by me, along with a sample from elsewhere on the mantelpiece, to a laboratory. The two lots proved to be substantially different—which unless one of them had been faked was a scientific impossibility. And to clinch it, identifiable grains of shaving-powder were found in the first sample.”
    Fen smiled. “Satisfied?” he asked.

The Man Who Lost His Head
    London clubs are not usually much frequented in the earlier hours of the day; so that when Sir Gerald McComas entered the main smoking-room of the United University shortly after 8:30 that sultry June morning, he found Gervase Fen in sole occupation. The two men were only slightly acquainted, and Fen was consequently a shade surprised when the millionaire art collector came over and settled down beside him.
    Presently, however, he launched with perceptible effort into an appeal for help. It had to be someone he knew , he said; on the other hand, it mustn’t be anyone he knew too well —else the appearance, and perhaps also the substance, of impartiality would be lacking.
    “You see, sir, the fact is”—Sir Geratd explained, at long last reaching the nub of the matter—”the fact is that I’m rather afraid my daughter’s fiancé may have—well, to put it bluntly, may have stolen something from me.”
    And then it all came pouring out.
    Jane McComas had got herself engaged, it seemed, to a fledgling barrister by the name of Brian Ainsworth: a good enough fellow, though perhaps not quite the match for Jane that Sir Gerald himself would have chosen… Anyway, for the past few days this young man had been staying et the McComas house in Lowndes Square.
    Yesterday afternoon he had taken Jane out to a cocktail party, from which they had returned only just in time to dress for dinner. And although Sir Gerald hated saying this, Ainsworth really had had several drinks too many.
    When Sir Gerald mildly remonstrated as the young man reached a fourth time for the brandy decanter, a quarrel had flared up which had culminated in Ainsworth’s losing his temper completely and rushing out of the house into the night.
    Unluckily, however, his headlong departure had carried him straight into the arms of a patrolling constable, whom in his anger he had unwisely tried to push aside; whereupon the constable had promptly arrested him for being drunk and disorderly.
    “So he spent last night in a cell,” said Sir Gerald, “and this morning they’ll be hauling him up in front of a magistrate. That doesn’t matter, though; the really serious thing is that when I went back indoors after all this rumpus, I found that a small but valuable Leonardo drawing, a ‘Head of a man’, had vanished from a portfolio in my study.
    “Now, the point is this. I’d last looked at that drawing shortly after lunch-time, and subsequent to that there were only two occasions when the study wasn’t either (a) well locked up or (b) occupied by me.
    “The first of these occasions was during the afternoon, when I gave Jane the key so that she could fetch a book she wanted; and if you’re thinking that perhaps she didn’t lock up properly afterward you can put that out of your mind, because as it happens I went along to the study myself, and settled down there, before Jane left it. I’ve checked with her, and she’s quite certain that no one except herself can have entered the room during the fire minutes