evening dress, with a light overcoat thrown over it; the overcoat was
unbuttoned and the shirt-front exposed. And on it that sickening crimson
stain widened and widened as Viner watched.

Here, without doubt, was murder, and Viner's thoughts immediately turned
to two things--one the hurrying young man whose face he thought he had
remembered in some vague fashion; the other the fact that a policeman
was slowly pacing up the terrace close by. He turned and ran swiftly up
the still deserted passage. And there was the policeman, twenty yards
away, coming along with the leisureliness of one who knows that he has a
certain area to patrol. He pulled himself to an attitude of watchful
attention as Viner ran up to him; then suddenly recognizing Viner as a
well-known inhabitant of the Square, touched the rim of his helmet.

"I say!" said Viner in the hushed voice of one who imparts strange and
confidential tidings. "There's a man lying dead in the passage round
here. And without doubt murdered! There's blood all over his
shirt-front."

The policeman stood stock still for the fraction of a second. Then he
pulled out his whistle and blew loudly and insistently. Before the
shrill call had died away, he was striding towards the passage, with
Viner at his side.

"Did you find him, Mr. Viner?" he asked.

"I found him," asserted Viner. "Just now--halfway down the passage!"

"Sure he's dead, sir?"