Which brought us face to face again with the amazing problem that we were there to solve. How, by any known natural law, had the Blue Rajah been taken out of the room? None of us could conjecture. That the detective was hopelessly mystified, his inaction, awaiting the result of Moris Klaw’s séance, was sufficient proof. I wondered if the Commissioner would have approved of his passive attitude and entire dependence upon the efforts of an amateur, yet failed to perceive what other he could adopt. One thing was certain: if the diamond was recovered, its recovery would be recorded among Detective-Inspector Grimsby’s successful cases! And there he sat placidly smoking one of Mr. Anderson’s habanas. At the expiration of the hour specified, Isis Klaw rose and walked across to Mr. Anderson’s office. Mr. Anderson, his ruddy face--typically that of a lowland Scot--a shade paler than was its wont, I fancy, was glancing from his watch to the clock. Isis knocked on the inner door, opened it, and entered. Sir John Carron was watching with intense interest. Mr. Chinje met my glance and smiled a little sceptically. Moris Klaw came out with his caped coat on and carrying his bowler in his hand. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have secured a mental negative, somewhat foggy, owing to those other thought forms with which the atmosphere is laden. But I have identified him--the thief!” A sound like a gasp repressed came from somewhere immediately behind me. I turned. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Anderson, junior, stood at my elbow; close by were Mr. Chinje, Grimsby, and Sir John Carron. “Who snorts?” rumbled Moris Klaw, peering through his pince-nez. “Not I,” said Sir John, staring about him. We all, in turn, denied having uttered the sound. “Then there is in this office a ghost,” declared Klaw, “or a liar!” “Excuse me, Mr. Klaw,” began Mr. Anderson, with some heat. Moris Klaw raised his hand. His daughter’s magnificent eyes blazed defiance at us all. “No anger,” implored the rumbling voice. “No anger. Anger is a misuse of the emotions. There are present eight persons here. Someone snorted. Eight persons deny the snort. It is a ghost or a liar. Am I evident to you?” “Your logic is irrefutable,” admitted the younger Mr. Anderson, glancing from face to face. “It pains me to have to admit that you are right!” In turn, I examined the faces of those present. Grimsby was a man witless with wonder. Both the Andersons were embarrassed and angry. Isis Klaw was scornfully triumphant; her father was, as ever, nonchalant. Sir John Carron looked ill at ease; Mr. Chinje appeared to have changed his opinion of the eccentric investigator and now studied him with the calm interest of the cultured Oriental.