“Who’s George Brooklyn?” Inspector Blaikie called out to the doctor in the adjoining room. The doctor came to the door, and saw the handkerchief in the inspector’s hand. “Hallo, what’s that you’ve got?” he said. “George Brooklyn is Prinsep’s cousin, old Sir Vernon’s other nephew. An architect, I believe, by profession.” “Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the inspector answered. “It was under the body.” “H’m. Well, that’s none of my business,” said the doctor, and turned back into the bedroom. There, a minute or two later, Inspector Blaikie followed him, leaving the sergeant on guard in the room where the tragedy had occurred. But first he carefully packed up and transferred to his handbag the handkerchief, the papers from the desk, and certain other spoils of his search. “Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Manton. The doctor had by this time drawn the knife from the wound, and this he now handed silently to the inspector, who examined it curiously, felt its edge, and finally wrapped it up and put it away in his bag with the rest of his findings. Then he turned again to the doctor. “A shocking business, inspector,” said the latter, still with his curiously cheerful air, “and, I may add, rather an odd one. The man was not killed with the knife, and the knife wound has not actually touched any vital part. He was killed, I have no doubt, by the blow on the back of the head—a far easier form of murder for any one who is not an expert. It was a savage blow. The wound in the chest, I have little hesitation in saying, was inflicted subsequently, probably when the man was already dead. As I say, it would not have killed him, and there are also indications that it was inflicted after death—the comparative absence of bleeding and the general condition of the wound, for example.” “H’m, you say the man was killed with a knock on the head, and the assassin then stabbed him in order to make doubly sure.” “Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.” “I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have stabbed a dead man?” “I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence, and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.” “But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.” “Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.” “What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?” “No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.” “And, apart from that, what was he like?”