Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street. At the station: “Wait,” said Chief Inspector Kerry, and went swinging in, carrying his overall and having the malacca cane tucked under his arm. A few minutes later he came out again and reentered the cab. “Piccadilly corner of Old Bond Street,” he directed the man. “Is it burglary?” asked Detective-Sergeant Coombes with interest. “No,” said Kerry. “It’s murder; and there seems to be stacks of evidence. Sharpen your pencil.” “Oh!” murmured Coombes. They were almost immediately at their destination, and Chief Inspector Kerry, dismissing the cabman, set off along Bond Street with his lithe, swinging gait, looking all about him intently. Rain had ceased, but the air was damp and chilly, and few pedestrians were to be seen. A car was standing before Kazmah’s premises, the chauffeur walking up and down on the pavement and flapping his hands across his chest in order to restore circulation. The Chief Inspector stopped, “Hi, my man!” he said. The chauffeur stood still. “Whose car?” “Mr. Monte Irvin’s.” Kerry turned on his heel and stepped to the office door. It was ajar, and Kerry, taking an electric torch from his overall pocket, flashed the light upon the name-plate. He stood for a moment, chewing and looking up the darkened stairs. Then, torch in hand he ascended. Kazmah’s door was closed, and the Chief Inspector rapped loudly. It was opened at once by Sergeant Burton, and Kerry entered, followed by Coombes. The room at first sight seemed to be extremely crowded. Monte Irvin, very pale and haggard, sat upon the divan beside Quentin Gray. Seton was standing near the cabinet, smoking. These three had evidently been conversing at the time of the detective’s arrival with an alert-looking, clean-shaven man whose bag, umbrella, and silk hat stood upon one of the little inlaid tables. Just inside the second door were Brisley and Gunn, both palpably ill at ease, and glancing at Inspector Whiteleaf, who had been interrogating them. Kerry chewed silently for a moment, bestowing a fierce stare upon each face in turn, then: “Who’s in charge?” he snapped. “I am,” replied Whiteleaf. “Why is the lower door open?” “I thought—” “Don’t think. Shut the door. Post your Sergeant inside. No one is to go out. Grab anybody who comes in. Where’s the body?” “This way,” said Inspector Whiteleaf hurriedly; then, over his shoulder: “Go down to the door, Burton.” He led Kerry towards the inner room, Coombes at his heels. Brisley and Gunn stood aside to give them passage; Gray and Monte Irvin prepared to follow. At the doorway Kerry turned. “You will all be good enough to stay where you are,” he said. He directed the aggressive stare in Seton’s direction. “And if the gentleman smoking a cheroot is not satisfied that he has quite destroyed any clue perceptible by the sense of smell I should be glad to send out for some fireworks.”