"He isn't shot. Stabbed. With a kitchen knife."

"Let's see him."

The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining room, and, on an
irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed.

"Him!" exclaimed Ferrall, as he caught sight of the dead man's
features. "That ain't no Somers. That's Randolph Schuyler."

"What!"

"Sure it is. Schuyler, the millionaire. Lives on Fifth Avenue, not far
down from here. Who killed him?"

"But look here. Are you sure this is Randolph Schuyler?"

"Sure? Of course I'm sure. His house is on my beat. I see him often,
goin' in or comin' out."

"Well, then we _have_ got a big case on our hands! Mason!"

The inspector could scarcely believe Ferrall's statement, but realized
that the policeman must know.

"Whew!" he said, trying to think of a dozen things at once. "Then
Steele knew him, and introduced him as Somers on purpose. No wonder
the clubs didn't know of R. Somers! R. S. on his handkerchiefs and all
that. He used a false name 'cause he didn't want it known that
Randolph Schuyler came to see Miss Van Allen! Oh, here's a mess!