Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of
intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the
stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely
quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended
the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had
tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back.
London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was
standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute
silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's
lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame,
we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the
carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The
red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the
door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his
light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly
over his shoulders.

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the
figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face
grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by
a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon
the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown
out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned
throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-
deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down
like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right
hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon