hispered.

Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.

"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My--my nerve's goin'."

Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised his
hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words
printed upon the bloodstained paper.

"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"--pouring out a draught
into a little glass--"drink this. And favour me with two minutes'
conversation before the police arrive."

Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, who
stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.

"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come _at once_ to
Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by--Severac
Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an
expert opinion. You _must_ be here within ten minutes."

The arrival of a couple of constables frustrated whatever object Dr.
Simons had had in detaining Mr. Rohscheimer, but the doctor lingered on,
evidently awaiting whoever he had spoken to on the telephone. The police
ascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the
"Douglas Graham" business, that this business was of an usurious
character, that the dead man's real name was Paul Gottschalk, and that
he, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at about
seven o'clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk as
they saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables had
been taken from the safe--which was open. The staff usually left at six.

This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearance
and, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr.
Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down the
outside office.

A few minutes later came a loud knocking on the door. Simons opened it
quickly, admitting a most strange old gentleman--tall and
ramshackle--who was buttoned up in a chess-board inverness; whose
trousers frayed out over his lustreless boots like much-defiled lace;
whose coat-sleeves, protruding from the cape of his inverness, sought to
make amends for the dullness of his footwear. He wore a turned-down
collar and a large, black French knot. His hirsute face was tanned to
the uniform hue of a coffee berry; his unkempt grey hair escaped in
tufts from beneath a huge slouched hat; and his keen old eyes peered
into