"Thank you," said the artist, and wrote beneath the portrait, "Private Person who, for Unexplained Reasons, Declined to Give his Name." The insertion of the key in the lock caused much excitement, and all the artillery of the press was brought to bear upon the inspector. The industrious journalists advanced cogent reasons why they should be let into the house; they begged, they clamoured, but they could not convince the obdurate inspector. "Very sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but it can't be allowed." He could not, however, prevent them from obtaining a glimpse of the dark passage, and this glimpse was quite sufficient to enable them to give a vivid description of the walls, the staircase, and the umbrella stand with one umbrella in it, which the eagle eye of the smarter of the artists transferred like lightning to his pad. It was an interesting feature in his article, "The Murdered Man's Umbrella." There was great disappointment among the group outside when the door was closed upon them. "You've been up these stairs often enough, Dick," said Inspector Robson. "Take us to the room." His eyes opened wide when they reached the office, and both he and Constable Applebee stared around in amazement. "Did you ever see anything like this, Applebee?" "Never, sir, out of a play." They spoke in hushed voices. Dick could not have explained why he counted the bottles of wine. It was done mechanically, and without motive, but it gave him a surprise. "Seventy-five bottles," he thought. "I'll take my oath that when I counted them the night before last, there were seventy-six." "Where's the bedroom, Dick?" whispered the inspector. Dick opened the door, and creeping in, they stood looking down upon the dead face. In this awful presence they were dumb. Stepping very softly they returned to the office. Then Inspector Robson spoke. "It's Samuel Boyd. What do you say, Applebee--do you recognise the features?" "I'll swear to the man, sir." "And you, Dick?" "There can be no doubt of it." "The coroner must be informed. Go and see who's knocking at the street door, Applebee. Don't let any one in." The constable departed on his errand. "It's a clear case, Dick. I wouldn't say so to any one but you, and we must keep our own counsel. The name of the murderer of Samuel Boyd is Abel Death. Now we know why he's keeping out of the way. He's got a long start of us. Here's Applebee coming back. Not a word. Who is it, Applebee?" "Mrs. Death and her little girl, sir. She's half distracted, and tried to force her way in." "We've seen what we came to see," said Inspector Robson, "and no person must be admitted into the house. You will keep in the Square to-night, Applebee. I'll put another man on your beat." "Very good, sir." The moment they emerged into the Square Gracie ran to Dick and took his hand. An infinite pity filled his heart as he looked down at her pallid, mournful face. "It's all right now, mother," she said, hoarsely. "Dick'll stand up for us."