“He might, but it is highly improbable. Besides, we have no use for a third man, for the crux of the thing is this: Gyde murdered Klein and decapitated him. The head found in the cupboard was the head he removed from Klein’s body; we are almost bound to believe this, from the two surgeons’ reports as to the manner of decapitation—well, the head removed from the body of Klein was _not_ Klein’s head, for, leaving small points aside, Klein was a clean-shaved man and the head was the head of a bearded man. “We can say now, almost for a certainty, that Klein has not been murdered, and that the real victim is a man extraordinarily like Gyde, the supposed murderer; more, several people have given evidence that the head _is_ that of Gyde.” “I for one agree with you, sir, that the head we have here in London and the body that is lying in Cumberland are one a part of the other.” It was Inspector Dewhurst who spoke. “We know,” he continued, “that Sir Anthony went into the cottage and went out, went to London, was recognized by numerous people; we know that _he_ is alive; we know that a man very like him was murdered, a man who, whatever he was, was not Klein. But we know that the only motive for this deed was the blackmailing of Sir Anthony by Klein. Why, then, did Sir Anthony murder this other man?” “Why,” put in Freyberger, “were those blackmailing letters left behind. We can imagine a novice capable of such a blunder, but the whole of this affair has been conducted with such terrible precision and coolness that we can scarcely consider its author capable of such a slip as that. May I speak, sir?” “It seems to me you are speaking,” said the chief, with a smile. “Go on, Freyberger; I am always glad to hear your views.” “Well, sir, it seems to me that there are many points in this case, each giving the lie to the other, each extraordinary. I have never come across such a chain of circumstances before. Accident might have cast all these extraordinary circumstances together. Gyde may have gone to murder his blackmailer, and found in the cottage, as well as his intended victim, a man very like himself. Gyde may have murdered this man for some reason or another and taken away his head; Gyde may have left those letters behind him from some extraordinary blunder. Klein may have given Gyde a written passport to his lodgings. Leloir, the valet, may simply have died of heart-disease. Gyde may have been a skilled anatomist, as well as a financier. All these are unlikely possibilities; each, taken separately would not, in itself, cause us so very much surprise, but taken _en masse_, the combination is almost impossible, viewed as a combination caused by chance. “If chance did not place these things in juxtaposition to confound our powers of reasoning, what did?