“My agent has explained to you,” said T. X. in French, “that I desire some information for the purpose of clearing up a crime which has been committed in this country. I have given you my assurance, if that assurance was necessary, that you would come to no harm as a result of anything you might tell me.” “That I understand, Effendi,” said the tall Turk; “the Americans and the English have always been good friends of mine and I have been frequently in London. Therefore, I shall be very pleased to be of any help to you.” T. X. walked to a closed bookcase on one side of the room, unlocked it, took out an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He laid this on the table, the Turk watching the proceedings with an impassive face. Very slowly the Commissioner unrolled the little bundle and revealed at last a long, slim knife, rusted and stained, with a hilt, which in its untarnished days had evidently been of chased silver. He lifted the dagger from the table and handed it to the Turk. “This is yours, I believe,” he said softly. The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he might secure the advantage of a better light. He examined the blade near the hilt and handed the weapon back to T. X. “That is my knife,” he said. T. X. smiled. “You understand, of course, that I saw 'Hussein Effendi of Durazzo' inscribed in Arabic near the hilt.” The Turk inclined his head. “With this weapon,” T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, “a murder was committed in this town.” There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotion whatever. “It is the will of God,” he said calmly; “these things happen even in a great city like London.” “It was your knife,” suggested T. X. “But my hand was in Durazzo, Effendi,” said the Turk. He looked at the knife again. “So the Black Roman is dead, Effendi.” “The Black Roman?” asked T. X., a little puzzled. “The Greek they call Kara,” said the Turk; “he was a very wicked man.” T. X. was up on his feet now, leaning across the table and looking at the other with narrowed eyes. “How did you know it was Kara?” he asked quickly. The Turk shrugged his shoulders. “Who else could it be?” he said; “are not your newspapers filled with the story?” T. X. sat back again, disappointed and a little annoyed with himself. “That is true, Hussein Effendi, but I did not think you read the papers.” “Neither do I, master,” replied the other coolly, “nor did I know that Kara had been killed until I saw this knife. How came this in your possession!” “It was found in a rain sewer,” said T. X., “into which the murderer had apparently dropped it. But if you have not read the newspapers, Effendi, then you admit that you know who committed this murder.” The Turk raised his hands slowly to a level with his shoulders.