But it was all vague. Gyde might have gone out on some business of his own at that late hour, taking his jewels with him; the scream heard by Folgam might have been an illusion, the death of Leloir might have been accidental. Each incident in itself was not impossible, viewed by the light of natural causes, but the conjunction of the three spelt, in lurid letters, crime. There was work to be done, but it was not here. “Who are Sir Anthony’s bankers?” asked Freyberger of Raymond. “Coutts, sir.” “Thanks, now I must be going. You will have the corpse removed to the mortuary, and—should Sir Anthony return, you had better telephone us, and we will send some one to interview him.” Freyberger left the house with the doctor. “It’s a queer case,” said the police surgeon. “Very,” replied the other, hailing a passing hansom. “I wonder what he saw before he died,” went on Dr Murrell. “If we knew that,” replied the detective, “the case might not seem so queer.” “Or queerer?” “Perhaps.” “That man died of pure blank terror, I’ll stake my reputation on it,” said Dr Murrell. “Out in Bulgaria, in the riot time, I saw a woman who had died like that. I have made my mind up to try and find out.” “What?” “What he saw.” “How?” “I shall photograph the retina by Mendel’s process.” “Ah!” said Freyberger. “Whatever he saw was seen by electric light, for the lamps in the bedroom were still alight when they found him. Electric light is more favourable even than sunlight for retinal pictures; he died instantaneously; the conditions could not well be more favourable.” “You are a photographer?” “Amateur,” replied the police surgeon, with a fine assumption of modesty, considering that photography, its highways and byways, was the hobby of his life. “You will let me know if you are successful,” said the other, getting into the cab. “I will,” replied Dr Murrell. When Freyberger reached the Yard, he had to wait for a full quarter of an hour before being admitted to the presence of his chief. He found the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department seated in that half cheerful, half sinister room, which is the central bureau of an army for ever at war with crime. The walls of this room are hung with pictures of noted criminals; over the mantel, in a glass case, are weird-looking instruments of the expert burglars’ art. In the centre of the room, at a large table covered with papers and documents, sat the chief; a young man, well dressed and groomed, with a quiet manner and a calm, cool, steadfast eye. Freyberger, without much preliminary, plunged into the business before him, and told all we know. Occasionally the young man at the table made a note. He listened attentively, asking a question now and then. When his subordinate had finished he said, “Is that all?” “Yes, sir, that is all I have to say.” “Hum—well, since you went, there has been a warrant issued for the arrest of Sir Anthony Gyde.”