misgivings with a cold British eye. However, I persuaded him to
go with me to the captain's rooms.

The captain's door was open. Remembering that in England the way
of the intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first. He stepped
into the room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.

"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.

And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the
Indian Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer
on his handsome English face!

The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent
morning in this room of mine which is so like the one in which the
captain died. He had been stabbed just over the heart, and my
first thought was of that odd Indian knife which I had seen lying
on his study table. I turned quickly to seek it, but it was gone.
And as I looked at the table it came to me that here in this dusty
room there must be finger prints--many finger prints.

The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle. One
or two odd matters met my eye. On the table stood a box from a
florist in Bond Street. The lid had been removed and I saw that
the box contained a number of white asters. Beside the box lay a
scarf-pin--an emerald scarab. And not far from the captain's body
lay what is known--owing to the German city where it is made--as
a Homburg hat.

I recalled that it is most important at such times that nothing be