nced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and
bearing commanded respect.

"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and
clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had
blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

"My God!" he whispered. "I am too late!"

With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of
loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably was
a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman. Other members of
the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly
hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went,
they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a
menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded
to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon
glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,
and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed
the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined
with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people
were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of
Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a
couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the
opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The
uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre
figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,
around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that
etched itself indelibly on my mind.

As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the
immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to
cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with
cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the
facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"

Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in
conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.

The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He
had been of spare but hardy build, with thin