Shortly afterward entered a strange figure. It was that of a tall man who stooped, so that his apparent height was diminished--a very old man who carried his many years lightly, or a younger man prematurely aged; none could say which. His skin had the hue of dirty vellum, and his hair, his shaggy brows, his scanty beard were so toneless as to defy classification in terms of colour. He wore an archaic brown bowler, smart, gold-rimmed pince-nez, and a black silk muffler. A long, caped black cloak completely enveloped the stooping figure; from beneath its mud-spattered edge peeped long-toed continental boots. He removed his hat. “Good morning, Mr. Coram,” he said. His voice reminded me of the distant rumbling of empty casks; his accent was wholly indescribable. “Good morning” (to the detective), “Mr. Grimsby. Good morning, Mr. Searles. Your friend, Mr. Glade, tells me I shall find you here. Good morning, Inspector. To Miss Coram I already have said good morning.” From the lining of the flat-topped hat he took out one of those small cylindrical scent sprays and played its contents upon his high, bald brow. An odour of verbena filled the air. He replaced the spray in the hat, the hat upon his scantily thatched crown. “There is here a smell of dead men!” he explained. I turned aside to hide my smiles, so grotesque was my first impression of the amazing individual known as Moris Klaw. “Mr. Coram,” he continued, “I am an old fool who sometimes has wise dreams. Crime has been the hobby of a busy life. I have seen crime upon the Gold Coast, where the black fever it danced in the air above the murdered one like a lingering soul, and I have seen blood flow in Arctic Lapland, where it was frozen up into red ice almost before it left the veins. Have I your permit to see if I can help?” All of us, the police included, were strangely impressed now. “Certainly,” said Coram; “will you step this way?” Moris Klaw bent over the dead man. “You have moved him!” he said, sharply. It was explained that this had been for the purpose of a medical examination. He nodded absently. With the aid of a large magnifying glass he was scrutinizing poor Conway. He examined his hair, his eyes, his hands, his fingernails. He rubbed long, flexible fingers upon the floor beside the body--and sniffed at the dust. “Someone so kindly will tell me all about it,” he said, turning out the dead man’s pockets. Coram briefly recounted much of the foregoing, and replied to the oddly chosen questions which from time to time Moris Klaw put to him. Throughout the duologue, the singular old man conducted a detailed search of every square inch, I think, of the Greek Room. Before the case containing the harp he stood, peering. “It is here that the trouble centres,” he muttered. “What do I know of such a Grecian instrument? Let me think.” He threw back his head, closing his eyes.