During lunch, I had been reading an account of the Chelsea tragedy in an early edition of the _Evening Standard_, and on returning to my chambers I found Inspector Grimsby waiting for me. A preamble was unnecessary. Simple deduction told me why he had come. He was in charge of the Chelsea mystery--and out of his depth. By several years the youngest detective inspector in the Service, Grimsby is a man earmarked by nature for constant promotion. He possesses a gift more precious than genius--the art of _using_ genius; allied to which he has that knack indispensable to any man who would succeed--the knack of finding the limelight. Although he may have done no more than stand in the wings throughout the performance, Detective-Inspector Grimsby invariably takes the last curtain. This is as it should be, and I accord him my respectful admiration. Therefore, on seeing him: “The murder of Pyke Webley?” I said, interrogatively. “Well, that’s wonderful!” he declared, trying to look surprised. “I shall begin to think you are Moris Klaw’s only rival if you spring things like this on me.” “I see,” said I, tossing my paper on the table. “The case is not so simple as it appears.” “Simple!” cried Grimsby. He threw the stump of a vicious-looking cheroot into my hearth. “Simple? It’s _too_ simple. By which I mean that there is nothing to work upon--nothing _I_ can see.” He stood, his back to the hearth, looking at me appealingly; and: “Have you ’phoned to Wapping?” I asked. Grimsby nodded. “I could get no reply,” he answered gloomily. “Then what do you suggest?” “Well”--he hesitated--“I know your time is of value, Mr. Searles, but I was wondering--I have a taxi outside--if you had time to run down to Moris Klaw’s place with me for a chat?” “Why not go alone?” “Ah!” He selected a fresh cheroot and made it crackle between finger and thumb. “His daughter is the snag. She thinks I waste his time. I doubt if she’d let me see him.” “Your own fault,” I said. “She’s a charming girl. You don’t handle her properly.” “Ah!” he repeated, and became silent, fumbling for matches. Finally, taking pity upon him: “Very well,” I agreed, “I have a couple of hours to spare, and if Klaw takes up the case my time will not be wasted.” II “You see,” said Grimsby, plaintively, as the cab threaded dingy highways, “there is absolutely no motive. Pyke Webley seems to have been a decent, clean-living man, with absolutely no vices as far as I can gather. Of course, I have tried to find a woman in the case, but the only women I’ve found are heartbroken about his death. A most popular chap. Revenge is out of the question; robbery is out of the question; and I’d take my oath that jealousy is out of the question. So what am I to make of it?” “He was strangled?” “Yes.” Grimsby nodded. “By a very powerful man. His face is horrible to see, and there are blue weals on his neck where the strangler’s fingers bit into the flesh.” “Who saw him last, alive?”