been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the
skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll's opinion,
the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was
nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man
who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in
his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing
valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that
could lead to identification--no letters, no papers, nothing. It was
plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently
stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity
lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been
newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End.

Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his
food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping.
He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at
last that the morning's event had destroyed his chance of rest; he
accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went
out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from
Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he
found that he had walked down to the police station near which the
unknown man's body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just
going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him.

"You're in luck," he said. "'Tisn't five minutes since they found a bit
of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man's waistcoat
pocket--it had slipped into a crack. Come in, and you'll see it."

Spargo went into the inspector's office. In another minute he found
himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an