Flat upon the floor, between the door and the ebony chair, arms extended and eyes staring upward at the ceiling, lay Sir Lucien Pyne, his white shirt front redly dyed. In the hush which had fallen, the footsteps of Inspector Whiteleaf sounded loudly as he opened the final door, and swept the interior of an inner room with the rays of the lantern. The room was barely furnished as an office. There was another half-glazed door opening on to a narrow corridor. This door was locked. “_Pyne!_” whispered Gray, pale now to the lips. “Do you understand, Seton? It’s Pyne! Look! He has been stabbed!” Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained linen over the breast of Sir Lucien. “Dead?” asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway. “Yes.” “You say, sir,” turning to Quentin Gray, “that this is Sir Lucien Pyne?” “Yes.” Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap. The odor of Seton’s cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which the place was laden. “Burton!” “Yes?” “See if this telephone in the office is in order. It appears to be an extension from the outer room.” While the others stood grouped about that still figure on the floor, Sergeant Burton entered the little office. “Hello!” he cried. “Yes?” A momentary interval, then: “It’s all right, sir. What number?” “Gentlemen,” said the Inspector, firmly and authoritatively, “I am about to telephone to Vine Street for instructions. No one will leave the premises.” Amid an intense hush: “Regent 201,” called Sergeant Burton. CHAPTER VI. RED KERRY Chief Inspector Kerry, of the Criminal Investigation Department, stood before the empty grate of his cheerless office in New Scotland Yard, one hand thrust into the pocket of his blue reefer jacket and the other twirling a malacca cane, which was heavily silver-mounted and which must have excited the envy of every sergeant-major beholding it. Chief Inspector Kerry wore a very narrow-brimmed bowler hat, having two ventilation holes conspicuously placed immediately above the band. He wore this hat tilted forward and to the right. “Red Kerry” wholly merited his sobriquet, for the man was as red as fire. His hair, which he wore cropped close as a pugilist’s, was brilliantly red, and so was his short, wiry, aggressive moustache. His complexion was red, and from beneath his straight red eyebrows he surveyed the world with a pair of unblinking, intolerant steel-blue eyes. He never smoked in public, as his taste inclined towards Irish twist and a short clay pipe; but he was addicted to the use of chewing-gum, and as he chewed—and he chewed incessantly—he revealed a perfect row of large, white, and positively savage-looking teeth. High cheek bones and prominent maxillary muscles enhanced the truculence indicated by his chin.