He acted as police surgeon, because, in that position, he was brought into contact with the people who helped to constitute his hobby. But he never helped the police in the least, beyond the assistance that his position bound him in duty to give. On several occasions he could have given the police a clue that would have helped them considerably in their work, yet he refrained. He was the police surgeon, but he did not feel himself bound to help the police beyond the help that his surgical knowledge was able to give. In the case of the valet Leloir he did not care twopence whether the result of his investigations brought a criminal to justice or cleared up a mystery. The thing was outside his province, and he embarked on it because he was a photographer. Freyberger arrived at Sackville Street about six, and found Dr Murrell at home. The doctor was in his study, going over his case book, and he bade his visitor be seated. “You have called about the case I saw this morning, I suppose?” said Dr Murrell. “Well, I have done what I said I would do. I have already removed the right eye, stripped the retina, exposed it and got a result; the picture is at present the size of a sixpence; my man is at work on it now; it is being reproduced and magnified enormously, under the rays of a five thousand candle-power arc-light. If you will call again to-night I will show you the ultimate result, larger than a cabinet-sized photograph.” “You have got a picture?” said Freyberger. “I have got a picture,” replied the other, “or fancy so, and, as I say, you will be able to see it to-night.” “What time shall I call?” asked the detective. “Oh, about ten.” “The body has been removed to the mortuary?” “Yes, it was there I took the eye, substituting a glass one. The inquest will be to-morrow, and, of course, the post-mortem. I expect the post-mortem will show that the man had a weak heart.” “You think he died of heart failure?” “I have told you already he died of terror; but I think the heart weakness was the secondary cause of his death. I see in the papers that a warrant is out for Sir Anthony Gyde. Have you caught him yet?” “No,” said Freyberger, “and we never will.” The other looked surprised. “I have only skimmed through the report in the paper,” he said. “From it I gather that it is very clearly proved that he has murdered a man up in Cumberland.” “You have not seen the head, then, that was found in his house in Piccadilly?” “No, I was from home when they sent for me, and they called the Home Office expert in.” Freyberger gave him all the details we know, and the doctor sat listening and tapping with his pencil on the desk. “Well,” he said, when the other had finished, “you seem to have a pretty tangled skein to unravel; what I can show you to-night may help you or not. Call at ten; and now I must take leave of you, for I have another patient to see before dinner.”