"Deecie says that there were two strange things about Geoff's death. He was struck by a fit of apoplexy. He was dead within the hour. Soon after he died, the servant came running to say that the bed was empty on which the body had been lying. Deecie went to see. He says that, when he got into the room, Geoff was back again upon the bed, but it was plain enough that he had moved. His clothes and hair were in disorder, his fists were clenched, and there was a look upon his face which had not been there at the moment of his death, and which, Deecie says, seemed a look partly of rage and partly of triumph. "I have been calculating the difference between Cingalese and Greenwich time. It must have been between three and four o'clock when the servant went running to say that Geoff's body was not upon the bed--it was about that time that Lanyon died." He paused--and then continued-- "The other strange thing that happened was this. Deecie says that the day after Geoff died a telegram came for him, which, of course, he opened. It was an Australian wire, and purported to come from the Melbourne sporting man of whom I told you." He turned to Mr. Philpotts. "It ran, 'Remittance to hand. It comes in rather a miscellaneous form. Thanks all the same.' Deecie can only suppose that Geoff had managed, in some way, to procure the four hundred pounds which he had lost and couldn't pay, and had also managed, in some way, to send it on to Melbourne." There was silence when Frank Osborne ceased to speak--silence which was broken in a somewhat startling fashion. "Who's that touched me?" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Cathcart, springing from his seat. They stared. "Touched you!" said someone. "No one's within half a mile of you. You're dreaming, my dear fellow." Considering the provocation was so slight, Mr. Cathcart seemed strangely moved. "Don't tell me that I'm dreaming--someone touched me on the shoulder!--What's that?" "That" was the sound of laughter proceeding from the, apparently, vacant seat. As if inspired by a common impulse, the listeners simultaneously moved back. "That's Fleming's chair," said Mr. Philpotts, beneath his breath. Nelly CHAPTER I "Why!" Mr. Gibbs paused. He gave a little gasp. He bent still closer. Then the words came with a rush: "It's Nelly!" He glanced at the catalogue. "No. 259--'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'--Philip Bodenham." It was a small canvas, representing the interior of an ill-furnished apartment in which a woman sat, on a rickety chair, at a rickety table, sewing. The picture was an illustration of "The Song of the Shirt." Mr. Gibbs gazed at the woman's face depicted on the canvas, with gaping eyes. "It's Nelly!" he repeated. There was a catch in his voice. "Nelly!"