Then the demon at the doorway began, in pantomime, to dig with his spade, shovelling up imaginary earth from an imaginary grave; without a word he went through the postures necessary in dragging a heavy body to the graveside and flinging it in. Then he spat three times into the imaginary grave, and closed it in. All this without a word. Then turning from his victim he went into the garden and began to dig the real grave. Freyberger’s eyes travelled about the floor of the room; they lit upon an object, it was a sandbag. He knew now what had happened to him. Sandbagged on the road, dragged into this cottage, bound and gagged, he lay now waiting for the last act in the tragedy—his own burial. The service for the burial of the dead would not be required over his grave, for, that Klein would bury him alive, he felt certain. He lay listening to the patter of the rain on the leaves in the garden and the sound of the spade. Incessant, rhythmical, it seemed wielded by a giant. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XLI THAT night in London the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department sat in his office. It required ten minutes to midnight, and he had just laid down his pen after several hours’ hard work over official correspondence and reports. The Goldberg case was still exercising the public mind, and several editors were asking the world from editorial easy chairs what the police were paid for. The night was warm, and through the open window came vague and fugitive sounds from the city that never sleeps; voices, the bells of passing hansoms and the clop, clop of the horses’ hoofs, the hum of distant traffic. A little draught of wind suddenly stirred the papers on the desk before him; he turned, the door was open, and Freyberger stood before him, pale, haggard and bearing a black bag in his hand. Behind Freyberger stood a stranger. “I knocked, sir,” said Freyberger. “Ah! I was thinking. I suppose I did not hear you. Sit down—this gentleman——?” “This gentleman’s name is Hellier, sir,” replied Freyberger. “I have ventured to bring him with me as he has assisted me in clearing up the Gyde case.” “Ah! what’s that you say?” “The Gyde case, sir. Also he has saved my life to-day—” “Sit down, sit down,” said the chief, indicating chairs. “This is good, if it is as you say. I want details; but first tell me, is Sir Anthony Gyde alive?” “No, sir, he was murdered in the Cottage on the Fells.” “Good God! by whom?” “Klein.” “Is Klein alive?” “No, sir, he is dead. He died to-day, and his body lies in the mortuary at Reading. Let me say at once, and with the humility of a man who has just escaped a terrible death, that all my assumptions were absolutely correct. Klein, _alias_ Kolbecker, _alias_ Müller, was the author of the Lefarge tragedy, the Gyde tragedy and all the subsidiary murders, concluding with the murder of Bronson yesterday. Look at this.”