The inclemency of the weather increased as the evening advanced. A howling south-west gale swept over London, clearing the streets of idlers and limiting to some extent the activities of the police patrols. The police officer who was on duty within a few yards of the building, and who was relieved at eleven o’clock that night, stated that he saw or heard nothing of a suspicious character. In the course of his tour of duty, he tried the door which led to Lord Claythorpe’s office but found it fastened. His relief, a man named Tomms, made an examination of the door at a quarter past eleven--it was his business to examine every door in the street to see that they were securely fastened--and, in addition, acting upon instructions received from Scotland Yard, “pegged” the door. That is to say, he inserted two small wedges of the size of match sticks, one in each door-post, and tied a piece of black cotton from one to the other. At one o’clock he tried the door again, and flashed his lamp upon the black thread, and found that it had been broken. This could only mean that someone had passed into the office between eleven and one. He summoned assistance, and roused the caretaker, who lived in adjoining premises, and together they went into the darkened building, and mounted the stairs. Lord Claythorpe’s office door was apparently closed. It led, as the caretaker explained, directly into the main office. There was no sign of jemmy work, and the officers might have given up their investigations and found a simple explanation for the broken thread in the wildness of the night, when, flashing his lamp on the floor, one of the policemen saw a thin trickle of red coming from beneath. It was blood! The police did not hesitate, but smashed open the door, and entered with some difficulty, for immediately behind the door was lying the body of a man. Tomms switched on the light and knelt down by the side of the body. “He’s dead,” he said. “Do you know this man?” “Yes, sir,” said the white-faced caretaker, “that’s Mr. Remington.” The police made a perfunctory examination. “You’d better get the divisional surgeon, Jim,” he said to his comrade. “But I’m afraid it’s no use. This poor fellow has been shot through the heart.” He looked round the apartment. The safe door was wide open and empty. Half-an-hour later Peter Dawes arrived on the scene of the murder and made a brief examination. He looked at the body. “Was he like this?” he asked, “when you found him?” “Yes, sir,” replied the officer. “He has a knife in his hand.” Peter bent down and looked at the thin-bladed weapon, tightly clenched in the dead man’s hand. “What’s that, sir?” said Tomms, pointing to the other hand. “It looks like a paper there.”