The symptoms, or those which I had been enabled to observe as Forsyth had first staggered into view from among the elms, were most puzzling. Clearly enough the muscles of articulation and the respiratory muscles had been affected; and now the livid face, dotted over with tiny wounds (they were also on the throat), set me mentally groping for a clue to the manner of his death. No clue presented itself; and my detailed examination of the body availed me nothing. The grey herald of dawn was come when the police arrived with the ambulance and took Forsyth away. I was just taking my cap from the rack when Nayland Smith returned. "Smith!" I cried, "have you found anything?" He stood there in the grey light of the hall-way tugging at the lobe of his left ear. The bronzed face looked very gaunt, I thought, and his eyes were bright with that febrile glitter which once I had disliked, but which I had learned from experience to be due to tremendous nervous excitement. At such times he could act with icy coolness, and his mental faculties seemed temporarily to acquire an abnormal keenness. He made no direct reply, but-- "Have you any milk?" he jerked abruptly. So wholly unexpected was the question that for a moment I failed to grasp it. Then-- "Milk!" I began. "Exactly, Petrie! If you can find me some milk, I shall be obliged." I turned to descend to the kitchen, when-- "The remains of the turbot from dinner, Petrie, would also be welcome, and I think I should like a trowel." I stopped at the stairhead and faced him. "I cannot suppose that you are joking, Smith," I said, "but--" He laughed dryly. "Forgive me, old man," he replied. "I was so preoccupied with my own train of thought that it never occurred to me how absurd my request must have sounded. I will explain my singular tastes later; at the moment, hustle is the watchword." Evidently he was in earnest, and I ran downstairs accordingly, returning with a garden trowel, a plate of cold fish, and a glass of milk. "Thanks, Petrie," said Smith. "If you would put the milk in a jug--" I was past wondering, so I simply went and fetched a jug, into which he poured the milk. Then, with the trowel in his pocket, the plate of cold turbot in one hand and the milk-jug in the other, he made for the door. He had it open, when another idea evidently occurred to him. "I'll trouble you for the pistol, Petrie." I handed him the pistol without a word. "Don't assume that I want to mystify you," he added, "but the presence of any one else might jeopardize my plan. I don't expect to be long." The cold light of dawn flooded the hall-way momentarily; then the door closed again and I went upstairs to my study, watching Nayland Smith as he strode across the common in the early morning mist. He was making for the Nine Elms, but I lost sight of him before he reached them.