to the
category of veracious history. It cannot be said in truth that any story
begins at the beginning of the first chapter, since all stories began
with the creation of the world, but this present story may be said to
begin when we cut into the lives of some of the characters concerned,
upon the seventeenth day of July, 19--.

There was a little group of people about the prostrate figure of a man
who lay upon the sidewalk in Gray Square, Bloomsbury.

The hour was eight o'clock on a warm summer evening, and that the
unusual spectacle attracted only a small crowd may be explained by the
fact that Gray Square is a professional quarter given up to the offices
of lawyers, surveyors, and corporation offices which at eight o'clock on
a summer's day are empty of occupants. The unprofessional classes who
inhabit the shabby streets impinging upon the Euston Road do not include
Gray Square in their itinerary when they take their evening
constitutionals abroad, and even the loud children find a less
depressing environment for their games.

The gray-faced youth sprawled upon the pavement was decently dressed and
was obviously of the superior servant type.

He was as obviously dead.

Death, which beautifies and softens the plainest, had failed entirely to
dissipate the impression of meanness in the face of the stricken man.
The lips were set in a little sneer, the half-closed eyes were small,
the clean-shaven jaw was long and underhung, the ears were large and
grotesquely prominent.

A constable stood by the body, waiting for the arrival of the ambulance,
answering in monosyllables the questions of the curious. Ten minutes
before the ambulance arrived there joined the group a man of middle age.

He wore the pepper-and-salt suit which distinguishes the country
excursionist taking the day off in London. He had little side whiskers
and a heavy brown mustache. His golf cap was new and set at a somewhat
rakish angle on his head. Across his waistcoat was a large and heavy
chain hung at intervals with small silver medals. For all his provincial
appearance his movements were decisive and suggested authority. He
elbowed his way through the little crowd, and met the constable's
disapproving stare without faltering.

"Can I be of any help, mate?" he said, and introduced himself as Police
Constable Wiseman, of the Sussex constabulary.

The London constable thawed.

"Thanks," he said; "you can help me get him into the ambulance when