from the dead man's pockets. And Gaffney, solemn of face and tight of
lip, set to his task in silence.

There was comparatively little to bring to light. A watch and chain--the
small pocket articles which every man carries--keys, a monocle eyeglass,
a purse full of gold, loose silver, a note-case containing a considerable
sum in bank-notes, some English, some foreign, letters and papers, a
pocket diary--these were all. Allerdyke took each as Gaffney produced
them, and placed each in the bag with no more than a mere glance.

"Everything there is, sir," whispered the chauffeur at last. "I've been
through every pocket."

Allerdyke found the key of the bag, locked it, and set it aside on the
mantelpiece. Then he went over to the suit-case lying on the bench at the
foot of the bed, closed and locked it, and dropped the bunch of keys in
his pocket. And just then Dr. Lydenberg came back, dressed, and on his
heels came the manager of the hotel, startled and anxious, and with him
an elderly professional-looking man whom he introduced as Dr. Orwin.

When James Allerdyke's dead body had been lifted on to the bed, and the
two medical men had begun a whispered conversation beside it, Allerdyke
drew the hotel manager aside to a corner of the room.

"Did you see anything of my cousin when he arrived last night?" he asked.

"Not when he arrived--no," replied the manager. "But later--yes. I had
some slight conversation with him after he had taken supper. It was
nothing much--he merely wished to know if there was always a night-porter
on duty. He said he expected a friend, who might turn up at any hour of