Newspaper life, my young friend, is one dam taxi after another."

The Morgue is, of course, no longer the public peep-show that it used to
be, but Martin's card procured him instant admission. On the inclined
marble slabs, down which ice water gently trickles, were two ghastly
white figures of women which had been waiting identification for some
days. The object of their search was not at the Morgue.

They proceeded across Paris to the Hôpital Malesherbes, but at the Place
de l'Opera Dean asked to be put down. The journalist promised to 'phone
to the Grand Hotel if anything of interest came to light, and Arthur
Dean went to make his report to Lars Larssen. It was already past
mid-day, and without doubt the shipowner would be impatient to hear
news.

Only stopping at a telephone call office for a few minutes, Dean hurried
to his employer's suite of rooms.

"Well?" asked Lars Larssen.

"To begin at the beginning, sir, I waited last night in the Rue Laffitte
until Mr Matheson came out of his office. It was not long before he
appeared, and then----"

The shipowner interrupted curtly. "I want the heart of the matter."

Dean gulped and answered: "I believe Mr Matheson has been murdered."

"Believe! Do you _know_?"