The doctor, ignorant of the circumstances, looked at the other with a sudden suspicion, but on French’s hurried explanation he nodded, and the three men bore the still form off and laid it reverently on the sofa in the Inspector’s stateroom. “When you’ve examined her, tell the Captain,” French said. “Meantime Carter and I must go and arrest the poor creature’s husband. You might show me his cabin when you’re through.” A few seconds sufficed the doctor for his examination, and then in silence he led the way to a cabin on the boat deck. French knocked, and instantly opening the door, passed inside, followed by the others. It was a large, roomy stateroom, fitted up as a private sitting-room, an open door revealing a bedroom beyond. The room had a comfortable, used appearance. Books and papers lay about, a box of chessmen and a pack of cards were on a locker, while in a lounge chair lay a woman’s crochet work. On a table stood an empty coffee cup and the smell of a good cigar was heavy in the air. In an arm-chair under the electric light, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, sat an old gentleman, the cigar in one hand and a book in the other. He seemed a tall man, and his long hair was pure white. He wore a long white beard and moustache, and had bushy white eyebrows. He sat staring at the intruders with surprise and apparent annoyance. But as his eyes settled on French’s face their expression changed. Amazement, incredulity, and a growing horror appeared in rapid succession. French advanced, but the other sat motionless, his eyes still fixed on his visitor’s with a dreadful intensity, like that of an animal fascinated by a snake. And then French began to stare in his turn. There was something familiar about those eyes. They were a peculiar shade of dark blue that he recalled very clearly. And there was a mole, a tiny brown mole beneath the corner of the left one, which he had certainly seen not long previously. So, for an appreciable time both remained motionless, staring at one another. Suddenly French recalled where he had seen that shade of iris and that mole. With a murmur of amazement he stepped forward. “Mr. Duke!” he cried. The other with a snarl of anger was fumbling desperately in his pocket. Like a flash, French and Carter threw themselves on him and caught his arm as it was half-way to his mouth. In the fingers was a tiny white pilule. In another second he was handcuffed, and French’s skilful fingers had passed over his clothes and abstracted from his pocket a tiny phial containing a few more of the little white messengers of death. At the same moment Captain Davis appeared at the door. “Shut the door, if you please, Captain,” French begged. “The Yard was right after all. This is the man.” A few sentences put the Captain in possession of the facts, and then French gently and with real kindness in his tones broke the news of Miss Winter’s death to his unhappy prisoner. But the man expressed only relief.