He tossed his oilskin and his cane on the divan and went into the room of seance, savagely biting at a piece of apparently indestructible chewing-gum. The torn green curtain had been laid aside and the electric lights turned on in the inside rooms. Pallid, Sir Lucien Pyne lay by the ebony chair glaring horribly upward. Always with the keen eyes glancing this way and that, Inspector Kerry crossed the little audience room and entered the enclosure contained between the two screens. By the side of the dead man he stood, looking down silently. Then he dropped upon one knee and peered closely into the white face. He looked up. “He has not been moved?” “No.” Kerry bent yet lower, staring closely at a discolored abrasion on Sir Lucien’s forehead. His glance wandered from thence to the carved ebony chair. Still kneeling, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a powerful lens contained in a washleather bag. He began to examine the back and sides of the chair. Once he laid his finger lightly on a protruding point of the carving, and then scrutinised his finger through the glass. He examined the dead man’s hands, his nails, his garments. Then he crawled about, peering closely at the carpet. He stood up suddenly. “The doctor,” he snapped. Inspector Whiteleaf retired, but returned immediately with the clean-shaven man to whom Monte Irvin had been talking when Kerry arrived. “Good evening, doctor,” said Kerry. “Do I know your name? Start your notes, Coombes.” “My name is Dr. Wilbur Weston, and I live in Albemarle Street.” “Who called you?” “Inspector Whiteleaf telephoned to me about half an hour ago.” “You examined the dead man?” “I did.” “You avoided moving him?” “It was unnecessary to move him. He was dead, and the wound was in the left shoulder. I pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt. That was all.” “How long dead?” “I should say he had been dead not more than an hour when I saw him.” “What had caused death?” “The stab of some long, narrow-bladed weapon, such as a stiletto.” “Why a stiletto?” Kerry’s fierce eyes challenged him. “Did you ever see a wound made by a stiletto?” “Several—in Italy, and one at Saffron Hill. They are characterised by very little external bleeding.” “Right, doctor. It had reached his heart?” “Yes. The blow was delivered from behind.” “How do you know?” “The direction of the wound is forward. I have seen an almost identical wound in the case of an Italian woman stabbed by a jealous rival.” “He would fall on his back.” “Oh, no. He would fall on his face, almost certainly.” “But he lies on his back.” “In my opinion he had been moved.” “Right. I know he had. Good night, doctor. See him out, Inspector.” Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure, followed by Whiteleaf.