The doctor rose to his full height, and exposed what he had been bending over. It was a sight that gave even Freyberger a thrill. He introduced himself. “I can’t find a trace of injury,” said the police surgeon. “What do you think he died of?” “Fright,” replied Dr Murrell. “Most possibly he had a weak heart, we will see at the autopsy; but it was fright that killed him—look at his face.” Now Freyberger was a junior man at the Yard. He recognized at once that this case was no ordinary case of a man being found dead. The position of Gyde, his great place in the world, his absence, and the extraordinary death of his valet, conspired to make it an affair of the first importance. A weak man might have sent for assistance, but he was not a weak man by any manner of means, and as he stood looking at the object on the floor, it seemed to him that he could hear the waters of that flood that leads on to fortune. In a moment he had made up his mind. Leaving the corpse exactly where it lay, he withdrew downstairs to the dining-room, asking the people around to accompany him. He shut the dining-room door and began to interrogate Raymond. “How many people slept in the house last night?” “Sir Anthony, sir, myself, the secretary, Mr Folgam, Leloir and the servants.” Then, answering the questions of the detective, he told nearly all that we know. As he was finishing, the door opened, and Mr Folgam came in; divining the presence of the law he introduced himself, and told of the cry he had heard and of how he had met Sir Anthony dressed, apparently, for going out. “In what state was the front door this morning,” asked Freyberger of Raymond. “The chain was undone, sir, all the bolts drawn, and the door held only by the latch.” “Had Sir Anthony any valuables in the house?” “His jewels, sir, in the big Morocco case he always carries about with him travelling; he keeps papers in it, but there are some very valuable jewels.” “Where is the case?” “In the bedroom, sir.” “Go with the constable and fetch it for me to see.” Raymond departed, and returned with the case; it was open, at least it was unlocked. Freyberger opened it; there were no jewels in it, nothing but papers; he gave it into the care of the constable. “How was Sir Anthony dressed when you saw him at his bedroom door?” he asked, turning to Mr Folgam. “Dressed for going out, even to his hat,” replied the secretary. “He had a dark overcoat on; Sir Anthony nearly always dressed in dark things.” “Did he seem excited?” “Well, I could not see his face very well, and as to his manner, no, I do not think it betrayed any excitement.” Freyberger paused a moment in thought; Gyde vanishing from the house without having slept in his bed, the vanishing of the jewels, the death of Leloir, and the scream heard by Mr Folgam, all pointed towards the sinister.