Through a fire of curious glances we marched up to the stable, outside which a solemn-looking constable was standing on guard. Lifting the latch, the Sergeant opened the door just wide enough for us to enter; and then, following on our heels, closed it carefully behind him. We found ourselves in a large, dimly lit coach-house, which had evidently been emptied for its present tragic purpose. Stretched out on a bundle of straw was the dead body of Bascomb, and stooping over it a tall, grey-haired man who bore the unmistakable stamp of a country doctor. In a businesslike fashion the Sergeant stepped forward. "Well, here we are, doctor," he said. "This is the gentleman I was speaking about. Mr. Dryden--Dr. 'Ayward." The doctor straightened himself, and, having surveyed me for a moment through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, came up to where I was standing. "I am pleased to meet you, sir," he said. "I only wish it was under less distressing circumstances." We shook hands. "It's a very sudden and shocking business," I said. "Bascomb was the sort of man who ought to have lived to be a hundred." I paused. "Have you any idea how it happened?" I asked. Dr. Hayward pursed up his lips and looked at me a little queerly. "I am quite certain of one thing at least," he answered, "and that is that the poor fellow didn't meet his death by drowning. He was dead before he ever reached the water." There was a brief silence. "Then the idea about his having run into the jetty--" I began. The doctor shook his head. "He was killed by a violent blow on the back of the skull. If you think you can stand a rather unpleasant sight, I'll show you the actual injury." I contented myself with a nod, and, moving forward, followed him across the stone floor. Bascomb's body was lying on the straw, face downwards. It had been stripped to the waist, and in the grey light which filtered in through the glass roof the enormous muscular development of his back and shoulders was plainly visible. My companion took out an electric torch from his pocket, and, bending down, switched on the current. "See that?" he enquired briefly. Hardened as I was by my experiences in the war, I was unable to repress a shudder of horror. Right in the middle of the close-cropped hair the bone had been smashed in like the top of an eggshell. "Not much doubt about the cause of death--eh?" The doctor switched off his torch, and stood up facing me. "One doesn't do that sort of thing without a little assistance," he added grimly. "He may have been struck by the prow of a boat or the screw of a steamer; the only other explanation I can offer is that he was deliberately murdered." "Murdered!" The Sergeant strode forward, and then, suddenly pulling up, stared incredulously from one to the other of us. "We must at least consider the possibility," I remarked. The Sergeant rubbed his chin in the same thoughtful fashion as before.