He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived, moved, before their eyes. Then-- “Yonder is the ax, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden awed respect. Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of the gallery. “Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “It will give you some idea of what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can’t raise it upright by the haft with one hand.” Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian club! He struck with it--to right--to left; he laid it down. “My father has a wrist of steel!” came the soft voice of Isis. “Did you not know that he was once a famous swordsman?” Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead with verbena. “That is a _man’s_ ax!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an ax? We, who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?” Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook. “It is the third one,” she replied, calmly, passing the open book to her father; “the one we thought!” “Ah,” rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, “‘Black Geoffrey’s’ ax!” He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he said, “have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This ax was carried by ‘Black Geoffrey,’ a very early Crespie, in the first Crusade. It slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not interest me. In the reign of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in Norfolk. It was not until Charles II that it came to Crespie Hall. And what happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who wielded it? Patience, my friends! All is clear to me! What a wonderful science is the Science of Cycles!” Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had furnished him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the slightest bearing upon the case. “Now, Mr. Grimsby,” continued Moris Klaw: “In a few words, what is the evidence against Ryder, the butler?” “Well,” was the reply, “you will note where the ax used to hang, up there before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that the murderer rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening----” “Theories, my friend,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “are not evidence!” Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed. “Sorry!” he said, humbly. “Here are the facts, then. In the right hand of the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed---- Sorry! Several spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see it?” Moris Klaw shook his head.