“Now, Doctor.” He nodded at the huddle beneath the raincoat. Beresford followed his glance—and saw the ominous heap for the first time. “What’s that?” he said tensely. No one answered him. The Doctor was already on his knees beside the body, drawing the raincoat gently aside. Beresford stared at the shape thus revealed with frightened eyes. The color left his face. “That’s not—Dick Fleming—is it?” he said thickly. Anderson slowly nodded his head. Beresford seemed unable to believe his eyes. “If you’ve looked over the ground,” said the Doctor in a low voice to Anderson, “I’ll move the body where we can have a better light.” His right hand fluttered swiftly over Fleming’s still, clenched fist—extracted from it a torn corner of paper.... Still Beresford did not seem to be able to take in what had happened. He took another step toward the body. “Do you mean to say that Dick Fleming—” he began. Anderson silenced him with an uplifted hand. “What have you got there, Doctor?” he said in a still voice. The Doctor, still on his knees beside the corpse, lifted his head. “What do you mean?” “You took something, just then, out of Fleming’s hand,” said the detective. “I took nothing out of his hand,” said the Doctor firmly. Anderson’s manner grew peremptory. “I warn you not to obstruct the course of justice!” he said forcibly. “Give it here!” The Doctor rose slowly, dusting off his knees. His eyes tried to meet Anderson’s and failed. He produced a torn corner of blue-print. “Why, it’s only a scrap of paper, nothing at all,” he said evasively. Anderson looked at him meaningly. “Scraps of paper are sometimes very important,” said with a side glance at Dale. Beresford approached the two angrily. “Look here!” he burst out, “I’ve got a right to know about this thing. I brought Fleming over here—and I want to know what happened to him!” “You don’t have to be a mind reader to know that!” moaned Lizzie, overcome. As usual, her comment went unanswered. Beresford persisted in his questions. “Who killed him? That’s what _I_ want to know!” he continued, nervously puffing his cigarette. “Well, you’re not alone in that,” said Anderson in his grimly humorous vein. The Doctor motioned nervously to them both. “As the coroner—if Mr. Anderson is satisfied—I suggest that the body be taken where I can make a thorough examination,” he said haltingly. Once more Anderson bent over the shell that had been Richard Fleming. He turned the body half-over—let it sink back on its face. For a moment he glanced at the corner of the blue-print in his hand, then at the Doctor. Then he stood aside. “All right,” he said laconically.