A Clue in Wax by Fred M. White

Clifford Cheriton emerged from the bathroom into his modest sitting-room in a blithesome frame of mind. For it was one of those perfect April mornings of which the poet Browning speaks so feelingly, and which seldom comes in what is traditionally a month of tender greenery and sunshine. But here was an afternoon--because it was afternoon--full of flickering lights and shadows and even in the dingy square outside the prim house in Bennett-street the lilacs were in full bloom, and here and there a laburnum about to burgeon into its yellow chains. An afternoon for youth and happiness and everything that goes to make life a joy even in a drab London street.

In the tiny sitting-room Cheriton's landlady had placed his breakfast on a table near the window so that he could command some sort of view of the outside world, and to his bacon and eggs the occupant sat down with the healthy appetite of an athlete and a man who has little or nothing on his conscience. There were sporting prints on the wall, a hanging bookcase containing some five hundred volumes, ranging from Anatole France's 'Revolt of the Angels' to Manning Foster's latest manual on the subject of auction bridge. So that it will be seen what a catholic taste in literature Cheriton possessed. In one corner of the room was a bag of golf clubs, and on the mantelshelf a rather elaborate silver clock bearing an inscription to the effect that the owner had won it in the open mile of the Lanchester school sports 15 years before. Which in itself was a proof that here was one who had made his mark in one of the finest scholastic institutions in the country. And to complete the whole thing, on a peg behind the door were a policeman's helmet and a blue tunic with three stripes on the arm from which the intelligent observer would have judged that Cheriton was connected with the police force.