“It was Beale’s custom,” said Coram, “to come around by the private entrance to my apartments. We then entered the Museum together by the iron door into the Greek Room and relieved Conway of the keys. There are several little matters to be attended to in the morning before admitting the public, and the other door is never unlocked before ten o’clock.” “Did you lock the door behind you when you came through this morning?” “Immediately on finding poor Conway.” “Could any one have come through this door in the night, provided he had a duplicate key?” “No. There is a bolt on the private side.” “And you were in your rooms all last night?” “From twelve o’clock, yes.” The police looked at one another silently; then the inspector gave an embarrassed laugh. “Frankly, sir,” he said, “I’m completely puzzled!” We passed upstairs again and Coram turned to the doctor. “Anything else to report about poor Conway?” he asked. “His face is all cut by the broken glass and he seems to have had a desperate struggle, although, curiously enough, his body bears no other marks of violence. The direct cause of death was, of course, a broken neck.” “And how should you think he came by it?” “I should say that he was hurled upon the floor by an opponent possessing more than ordinary strength!” Thus the physician, and was about to depart when there came a knocking upon the iron door. “It is Hilda,” said Coram, slipping the key in the lock--“my daughter,” he added, turning to the detective. II The heavy door swinging open, there entered Hilda Coram, a slim, classical figure, with the regular features of her father and the pale gold hair of her dead mother. She looked unwell, and stared about her apprehensively. “Good morning, Mr. Searles,” she greeted me. “Is it not dreadful about poor Conway!”--and then glanced at Coram. I saw that she held a card in her hand. “Father, there is such a singular old man asking to see you.” She handed the card to Coram, who in turn passed it to me. It was that of Douglas Glade of the _Daily Cable_, and had written upon it in Glade’s hand the words, “To introduce Mr. Moris Klaw.” “I suppose it is all right if Mr. Glade vouches for him,” said Coram. “But does anybody here know Moris Klaw?” “I do,” replied the Scotland Yard man, smiling shortly. “He’s an antique dealer or something of the kind; got a ramshackle old place by Wapping Old Stairs--sort of a cross between Jamrach’s and a rag shop. He’s lately been hanging about the Central Criminal Court a lot. Seems to fancy his luck as an amateur investigator. He’s certainly smart,” he added, grudgingly, “but cranky.” “Ask Mr. Klaw to come through, Hilda,” said Coram.