“There’s very little,” replied Goodall. “Very little indeed. No forced entrance at all. Not even a foot mark or finger-print. Three articles stolen—a night-watchman dead on the floor. Motive—burglary! Which makes the murder a subordinate factor in the crime. Which makes the murdered man almost impersonal! And I’m supposed to put my hands on this murderer in less than twenty-four hours—and that out of a little matter of six millions of people.” “You’re supposed——” Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’” Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed. That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no mean antagonist he felt sure. Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he announced. “Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened perceptibly. Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had a somewhat unsettling effect upon him. “You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced Goodall. “Yes, sir.” “How long have you worked here?” Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?” “Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer, “six years last Easter.” Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given satisfaction.” A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes. “What time were you relieved last night?” he asked. “About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.” “Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?” “It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?” “He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the night.” Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp. “Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?” Druce shook his head. “No, sir—nothing.” This decisively! “He ’ad a joke on his lips, sir, when he came up the stairs with me—just as he usually had. Told me I could go ’ome and do some gardenin’—before I went to ‘Kip.’ Twelve o’clock at night, sir, that was.” “You went downstairs to open the doors to let him in?” “Yes, sir. He always give three loud sharp knocks.” “And you noticed nothing then—or at any other time during the evening that you regarded as unusual or abnormal? Think carefully!”