Across it was stamped the name of Sanford Quest.
"This yours, Quest ?" "Of course it is," Quest answered.

"Everything in the room is mine." "The girl would fight to defend herself," the Inspector remarked slowly, "but she could never strike a man such a blow as your valet died from." Once more he stooped and picked up a small clock.

It had stopped at eleven-fifteen.

He looked at it thoughtfully.
"Quest," he said, "I'll have to ask you a question." "Why not ?" Quest replied, looking quickly up.
"Where were you at eleven-fifteen ?" "On tower Number 10 of the New York Central, scrapping for my life," Quest answered grimly.

"I've reason to remember it." Something in the Inspector's steady gaze seemed to inspire the criminologist suddenly with a new idea.