There was no doubt about it--everything around him was real.

Most real of all was the fact that within a few feet of him lay a murdered man, and that in his hands was that brown leather pocket-book with its miraculous contents.

For the last time Laverick retraced his steps and bent over that huddled-up shape.

One by one he went through the other pockets.

There was a packet of Russian cigarettes; an empty card-case of chased silver, and obviously of foreign workmanship; a cigarette holder stained with much use, but of the finest amber, with rich gold mountings.
There was nothing else upon the dead man, no means of identification of any sort.