His master started violently, and, rising, went forth into the hall, where the butler, his face scared and white, whispered-- "Something terrible has occurred, m'sieur! Davis, the groom, has just found a gentleman lying dead in the drive outside. He's been murdered, m'sieur!" "Murdered!" gasped Poland breathlessly. "Who is he?" "The gentleman who called upon you three-quarters of an hour ago. He's lying dead--out yonder." "Where's a lantern? Let me go and see!" cried Poland. And a few moments later master and man were standing with the groom beside the lifeless body of Henri Guertin, the great detective, the terror of all French criminals. The white countenance, with its open, staring eyes, bore a horrified expression, but the only wound that could be distinguished was a deep cut across the palm of the right hand, a clean cut, evidently inflicted by a keen-edged knife. Davis, on his way in, had, he explained, stumbled across the body in the darkness, ten minutes before. Philip Poland had knelt, his hand upon the dead man's heart, when suddenly all three were startled by the sound of footsteps upon the gravel, and next moment two men loomed up into the uncertain light of the lantern. One was tall and middle-aged, in dark tweeds and a brown hat of soft felt; the other, short and stout, wearing gold pince-nez. A loud cry of dismay broke from Poland's fevered lips as his eyes fell upon the latter. "Hallo! What's this?" cried a sharp, imperious voice in French, the voice of the man in pince-nez, as, next moment, he stood gazing down upon the dead unknown, who, strangely enough, resembled him in countenance, in dress--indeed, in every particular. The startled men halted for a moment, speechless. The situation was staggering. Henri Guertin stood there alive, and as he bent over the prostrate body an astounding truth became instantly revealed: the dead man had been cleverly made-up to resemble the world-renowned police official. The reason of this was an entire mystery, although one fact became plain: he had, through posing as Guertin, been foully and swiftly assassinated. Who was he? Was he really the man who came there to suggest suicide in preference to arrest, or had that strange suggestion been conveyed by Guertin himself? The point was next moment decided. "You see, m'sieur," exclaimed Poland defiantly, turning to the great detective, "I have preferred to take my trial--to allow the public the satisfaction of a solution of the problem, rather than accept the generous terms you offered me an hour ago." "Terms I offered you!" cried the Frenchman. "What are you saying? I was not here an hour ago. If you have had a visitor, it must have been this impostor--this man who has lost his life because he has impersonated me!" Philip Poland, without replying, snatched at the detective's left hand and examined it. There was no ring upon it.