2, with which his friend intended to tidy himself up a bit
before he went to meet his friend the millionaire. Half an hour
afterwards Kershaw had left his lodgings, and that was the last the
unfortunate woman saw of her husband, or Mueller, the German, of his
friend.

"Anxiously his wife waited that night, but he did not return; the next
day she seems to have spent in making purposeless and futile inquiries
about the neighbourhood of Fenchurch Street; and on the 12th she went to
Scotland Yard, gave what particulars she knew, and placed in the hands
of the police the two letters written by Smethurst."

CHAPTER II

A MILLIONAIRE IN THE DOCK

The man in the corner had finished his glass of milk. His watery blue
eyes looked across at Miss Polly Burton's eager little face, from which
all traces of severity had now been chased away by an obvious and
intense excitement.

"It was only on the 31st," he resumed after a while, "that a body,
decomposed past all recognition, was found by two lightermen in the
bottom of a disused barge. She had been moored at one time at the foot
of one of those dark flights of steps which lead down between tall
warehouses to the river in the East End of London. I have a photograph
of the place here," he added, selecting one out of his pocket, and
placing it before Polly.

"The actual barge, you see, had already been removed when I took this
snapshot, but you will realize what a perfect place this alley is for
the purpose of one man cutting another's throat in comfort, and without
fear of detection. The body, as I said, was decomposed beyond all
recognition; it had probably been there eleven days, but sundry
articles, such as a silver ring and a tie pin, were recognizable, and
were identified by Mrs. Kershaw as belonging to her husband.

"She, of course, was loud in denouncing Smethurst, and the police had no
doubt a very strong case against him, for two days after the discovery
of the body in the barge, the Siberian millionaire, as he was already
popularly called by enterprising interviewers, was arrested in his
luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Cecil.

"To confess the truth, at this point I was not a little puzzled. Mrs.
Kershaw's story and Smethurst's letters had both found their way into
the papers, and following my usual method--mind you, I am only an
amateur, I try to reason out a case for the love of the thing--I sought
about for a motive for the crime, which the police d