“I agree with Captain Charles to some extent. The appearances are consistent with opium-poisoning. But----” I turned to the Inspector--“can you tell us the hour at which the body was found with life extinct?” Captain Charles consulted his watch. Tarleton’s fingers were already pinching the shabby ribbon of his repeater, and it was going to and fro with the slow movement of a pendulum. “It is now half-past six. I got here soon after five. It must have been about half-past four when the body was found.” I looked questioningly at the great specialist. “Unless the opiate was given very early, in which case the effect would surely have been noticed by someone, it must have been a very powerful dose to produce death so soon. I should be inclined to suspect some weakness in the heart, or some other derangement, to account for such rapid action. I don’t like the colour of the skin.” “Ah! You see that?” Tarleton bent over the dead face in grave scrutiny for some moments. Then he straightened himself up. “And now, who is this man?” he asked the Inspector. “His name is Wilson, so the proprietress says. But she seems to know very little about him.” “Wilson?” The doctor repeated the name with a sceptical intonation. “That is the sort of name that man would be likely to give himself in a place of this kind, I should think. Can I see the proprietress?” Captain Charles went out in quest of her. He was no sooner gone than my chief whispered quickly in my ear, “Not another word about the cause of death before anybody else. I blame myself for asking your opinion. I underrated your powers of observation. Hush!” I looked round to see a capable middle-aged Frenchwoman dressed in black silk, emerging from a portière across the room. Very capable and businesslike she looked, with her well-arranged hair and commanding black eyes, and well-preserved face and figure, and that amazing air of respectability which only a Frenchwoman can keep up in an atmosphere charged with evil. In Madame Bonnell’s presence vice was deprived of its impropriety, and even murder took on the character of a business mischance about which the less fuss made the better. Madame had obviously employed her time since the discovery of this particular mischance in making the best of her personal appearance. She greeted us with affability. Even Tarleton, I thought, was softened by her graceful and yet dignified deportment. In a moment we seemed to become four friends engaged in a confidential talk over a matter of common interest. It was Madame who induced me to sit down. “You understand, no doubt, Madame, that we are not here with any hostile purpose,” the representative of the Home Office began. “If it is possible to dispose of this matter privately, without involving you or your establishment in any scandal, I shall be glad.”