“Poor thing. But I’m afraid some of our visitors will. And they had better not, you know.” At last he got rid of the lady and turned the key in the lock and stood looking at it. “Yes, quite natural, but very convenient,” said he, and turned away from it and contemplated a big easy chair. The loose cushion on the seat showed that somebody had been sitting in it, a fact not in itself remarkable. But there was a tiny smear of blood on the arm still wet. He picked up the cushion. On the under side was a larger smear of blood. Mr. Fortune’s brow contracted. “The unknown murderer cuts her throat--comes over here--makes a mess on the chair--turns the cushion over--and sits down--to watch the woman die. This is rather diabolical.” He began to wander round the room. It offered him no other signs but some drops of blood on the hearthrug and the hearth. He knelt down and peered into the fire, and with the tongs drew from it a thin piece of metal. It was a surgical knife. He looked at the dead woman. “From your hospital equipment, Dr. Hall. And Edith Baker is a nurse. And Edith Baker had ‘a girlish passion’ for you. I wonder.” Some one was trying the door. He unlocked it, to find an inspector of police. “I am Reginald Fortune,” he explained. “Here’s your case.” “I’ve heard of you, sir,” said the inspector reverently. “Bad business, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s very lucky you were here.” “I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Could it be suicide, sir?” Reggie shook his head. “I wish it could. Not a nice murder. Not at all a nice murder. By the way, there’s the knife. I picked it out of the fire.” “Doctor’s tool, isn’t it, sir? Have you got any theory about it?” Reggie shook his head. “There’s the girl who gave the alarm: she’s a nurse in the hospital, I’m told.” “I don’t know the girl,” said Reggie. “You’d better see what you make of the room. I shall be downstairs.” In the big hall the decorations and the Christmas tree with its ungiven presents glowed to emptiness and silence. Joan Amber came forward to meet him. He did not speak to her. He continued to stare at the ungiven presents on the Christmas tree. “What do you want to do?” she said at last. “This is the end of a perfect day,” said Mr. Fortune. “Poor kiddies.” “The matron packed them all off to their dormitories.” Mr. Fortune laughed. “Just as well to rub it in, isn’t it?” Miss Amber did not answer him for a moment. “Do you know, you look rather terrible?” she said, and indeed his normally plump, fresh-coloured, cheery face had a certain ferocity. “I feel like a fool, Joan. Where is everybody?” “She sent everybody away too.” “She would. Great organizer. No brain. My only aunt! A woman’s murdered and every stranger who was in the place is hustled off before the police get to work. This isn’t a crime, it’s a nightmare.” “Well, of course they were anxious to go.” “They would be.” “Reggie, who are you thinking of?” “I can’t think. There are no facts. Where’s this matron now?”