“The _canaille!_ But no matter, he is dead _canaille!_ After you got the brother hanged, this Corpus Chris (it was Fate that named him!) sent to your daughter a mad letter, swearing that if she does not fly with him, he will kill you if he has to follow you around the world! Yes, he was insane, I fancy; I think so. But he was a man of very great culture. He held a Cambridge degree! You did not know? I thought not. He tracked you to Europe and right to this house. Its history he learned in some way and used for his own ends. Probably, too, he had no opportunity of getting at you otherwise, without leaving behind a clue or being seen and pursued.” Moris Klaw picked up an Indian bow which lay upon the floor beside him. “A bow of the Sioux pattern,” he rumbled, impressively. He stooped again, picking up a small arrow to which a length of thin black twine was attached. “One standing on the balcony in the moonlight,” he continued, “what a certain mark if the wind be not too high! And you will remember that on gently blowing nights the whispering came!” He raised the point of the arrow. It was encrusted in some black, shining substance. Moris Klaw lowered his voice. “_Curari!_” he said, hoarsely, “the ancient arrow poison of the South American tribes! This small arrow would make only a tiny wound, and it could be drawn back again by means of the twine attached. Costa, of course, mistook Ottley for you, Mr. Haufmann. Ah, a clever fellow! I spent three evenings up the second tree in the avenue waiting for him. I need not have shot him if you had followed my instructions and not come out on the balcony. We could have captured him alive!” “I’m not crying about it!” said Haufmann. “Neither do I weep,” rumbled Moris Klaw, and bathed his face with perfume. “But I loathe it, this _curari_--it smells of death. Ah! the _canaille!_” SEVENTH EPISODE. CASE OF THE CHORD IN G I It has been suggested to me more than once that the extraordinary crime which became known throughout the press as the Chelsea studio murder was the Waterloo of my eccentric friend, Moris Klaw; to which I reply that, on the contrary, it was his Austerlitz. This prince of criminologists, some of whose triumphs it has been my privilege to chronicle, never more dramatically established his theory of what he termed “Odic negatives” than in his solution of the mystery of the death of Pyke Webley, the portrait painter. His singular power, which I can only term post-telepathy, of recovering thought-forms from the atmosphere, earned him the derision of the ignorant, as I have shown, but the grateful appreciation of the better informed--not least among these, Detective-Inspector Grimsby, of New Scotland Yard. I cannot doubt that the recent experiments of Professor Gilbert Murray were based upon that law of “psychic angles” laid down by the strange genius of Wapping Old Stairs.