ch had poisoned the
food of the entire nation for ten years, and in his third he had
pitilessly exposed some of the best and most respectable people in the
metropolis. Kent's work on the _Planet_ consisted now almost exclusively
of unravelling and unearthing, and it was natural that the manager
should turn to him.

The mansion was a handsome sandstone residence, standing in its own
grounds. On Kent's arrival he found that the police had already drawn a
cordon around it with cords. Groups of morbid curiosity-seekers hung
about it in twos and threes, some of them in fours and fives. Policemen
were leaning against the fence in all directions. They wore that baffled
look so common to the detective force of the metropolis. "It seems to
me," remarked one of them to the man beside him, "that there is an
inexorable chain of logic about this that I am unable to follow." "So do
I," said the other.

The Chief Inspector of the Detective Department, a large, heavy-looking
man, was standing beside a gate-post. He nodded gloomily to Transome
Kent.

"Are you baffled, Edwards?" asked Kent.

"Baffled again, Mr. Kent," said the Inspector, with a sob in his voice.
"I thought I could have solved this one, but I can't."

He passed a handkerchief across his eyes.

"Have a cigar, Chief," said Kent, "and let me hear what the trouble is."

The Inspector brightened. Like all policemen, he was simply crazy over
cigars. "All right, Mr. Kent," he said, "wait till I chase away the
morbid curiosity-seekers."

He threw a stick at them.

"Now, then," continued Kent, "what about tracks, footmarks? Had you
thought of them?"

"Yes, first thing. The whole lawn is covered with them, all stamped
down. Look at these, for instance. These are the tracks of a man with a
wooden leg"--Kent nodded--"in all probability a sailor, newly landed
from Java, carrying a Singapore walking-stick, and with a tin-whistle
tied round his belt."

"Yes, I see that," said Kent thoughtfully. "The weight of the whistle
weighs him down a little on the right side."

"Do you think, Mr. Kent, a sailor from Java with a wooden leg would
commit a murder like this?" asked the Inspector eagerly. "Would he do
it?"

"He would," said the Investigator. "They generally do--as soon as they
land."

The Inspector nodded. "And look at these marks here, Mr. Kent. You
recognize them, surely--those are the footsteps of a bar-keeper out of
employment, waiting for the eighteenth amendmen