“Ah, there you have it,” said the divisional surgeon heartily. Reggie looked at them, nodded, and without more talk led the way to the body. It did not occupy him long. Two wounds had sufficed to make an end of Stephenson Charlecote. One in the throat, which had pierced the carotid artery; one in the chest, which had reached the heart. Superintendent Bell, in attendance from Scotland Yard, produced the weapon found by the body--a long, thin dagger or stiletto, obviously capable of causing the wounds, obviously Italian in origin. Reggie finished his examination and turned to the two doctors, who were waiting on him reverently. “Anything in particular occur to you, gentlemen?” “Quite straightforward, I think.” The divisional surgeon shrugged. “Technically speaking, a very neat bit of work.” “I would go even further,” said Dr. Newton. “The crime seems to have been committed with remarkable skill and determination.” “The extraordinary efficiency of the assassin,” Reggie murmured. “Yes. Touched the spot every time.” “It would almost seem to suggest some experience in the use of this weapon,” said Dr. Newton. “That is indicated.” Reggie nodded at him. “Yes. Deceased been in good health lately?” “I have been treating him for some time for gastric trouble--a persistent gastric catarrh. It was troublesome, but hardly serious.” And upon that Reggie got rid of them and was left alone with Superintendent Bell. Superintendent Bell cocked an oldish but still bright eye. “And the next thing, sir?” said he. “I am feeling depressed, Bell. Do you ever have feelings? I feel this is all wrong.” “Well, sir, the evidence is thin, very thin.” “Evidence? Oh, my aunt, we haven’t come to evidence yet. I’m uncomfortable. Everything seems wrong way up. Why did anybody kill the old man? He was making friends with Geoffrey again and anyway he had enough to live on. Herbert had an allowance and something of his own, too. Nobody else stood to gain by his death.” “If you leave out the Italian girl, sir.” “It keeps coming back to her,” Reggie said mournfully. “But why? Suppose he was nasty to her when he called. Would she run out and stab him in the street? I wonder. Did he know some horrid secret about her past? What is her past, Bell?” “Pretty short, sir, anyway. She’s not more than eighteen. She was a café singer, all right. But we have nothing against her. In my experience they’re no worse than others.” “And that’s that. Have you seen his papers?” “Better come up to the house, sir. His solicitor will be there. But I understand there’s nothing in them. Very few private papers at all.” “Well, well. I suppose he was murdered.” Superintendent Bell stared. “Mr. Lomas said you were harping on that. Pretty clear, sir, isn’t it?” “I suppose so,” said Reggie drearily. “But it’s all wrong, Bell, it’s all wrong.”