the moment when it had been placed in my hand I had stood staring at
it almost dazedly.

The divisional surgeon had gone, and only the local officer remained
with Gatton and myself in the building. Sir Marcus Coverly presented
all the frightful appearance of one who has died by asphyxia, and
although of course there would be an autopsy, little doubt existed
respecting the mode of his death. The marks of violence found upon the
body could be accounted for by the fact that the crate had fallen a
distance of thirty feet into the hold, and the surgeon was convinced
that the injuries to the body had all been received after death, death
having taken place in his opinion fully twelve hours before.

"You see," said Gatton, "when the crate broke several things which
presumably were in Sir Marcus' pockets were found lying loose amongst
the wreckage. That cat-woman was one of them."

"Yet it may not have been in any of his pockets at all," said I.

"It _may_ not," agreed Gatton. "But that it was somewhere in the crate
is beyond dispute, I think. Besides this is more than a coincidence."

And he pointed to the painted cat upon the lid of the packing-case. I
had already told him of the episode at the Red House on the previous
night, and now:

"The fates are on our side," I said, "for at least we know where the
crate was despatched from."

"Quite so," agreed Gatton. "We should have got that from the carter