Unsnapping it, he took out a sheaf of photographs and handed them to Hardwicke. “What do you make of these?” he asked. Hardwicke picked them up. Suddenly he froze. The color drained out of his face. His hands began to tremble and he laid the pictures carefully on the desk. He had looked at only the top one; not any of the others. Lewis saw the question in his face. “In the grave,” he said. “The one beneath the headstone with the funny writing.”
