“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector. “I will call when I want you. You stay, Coombes. Got it all down?” Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and: “Yes,” he said, with hesitancy. “That is, except the word after ‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like ‘steelhatto.’” Kerry glared. “Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested. “The word was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o—stiletto.” “Oh,” said Coombes, “thanks.” Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then: “Go through all pockets,” he directed. Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. It contained a writing-table (upon which was a telephone and a pile of old newspapers), a cabinet, and two chairs. Upon one of the chairs lay a crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat. He glanced at some of the newspapers, then opened the drawers of the writing-table. They were empty. The cabinet proved to be locked, and a door which he saw must open upon a narrow passage running beside the suite of rooms was locked also. There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out again. “Nothing,” reported Coombes. “What do you mean—nothing?” “His pockets are empty!” “All of them?” “Every one.” “Good,” said Kerry. “Make a note of it. He wears a real pearl stud and a good signet ring; also a gold wrist watch, face broken and hands stopped at seven-fifteen. That was the time he died. He was stabbed from behind as he stood where I’m standing now, fell forward, struck his head on the leg of the chair, and lay face downwards.” “I’ve got that,” muttered Coombes. “What stopped the watch?” “Broken as he fell. There are tiny fragments of glass stuck in the carpet, showing the exact position in which his body originally lay; and for God’s sake stop smiling.” Kerry threw open the door. “Who first found the body?” he demanded of the silent company. “I did,” cried Quentin Gray, coming forward. “I and Seton Pasha.” “Seton Pasha!” Kerry’s teeth snapped together, so that he seemed to bite off the words. “I don’t see a Turk present.” Seton smiled quietly. “My friend uses a title which was conferred upon me some years ago by the ex-Khedive,” he said. “My name is Greville Seton.” Inspector Kerry glanced back across his shoulder. “Notes,” he said. “Unlock your ears, Coombes.” He looked at Gray. “What is your name?” “Quentin Gray.” “Who are you, and in what way are you concerned in this case?” “I am the son of Lord Wrexborough, and I—”