“The door-keeper of the Ham Bone Club,” came the answer, promptly. “He dined there, stayed an hour talking to friends and then went out, saying that he had work to do at his studio. The studio is separated from the house by a small garden and can be entered direct from a side entrance. There are only two servants--he was a bachelor--a cook general and a man who has been with him for years. Neither of them heard him come into the house, so that we presume he went straight into the studio. Early this morning a charwoman, who comes daily, finding the studio door locked (I mean the one that opens on the garden) reported this to Parker (that’s the man’s name) and he came down with the key.” “But,” I interrupted, “Parker must surely have known before this that his master was not in the house?” “No!” Grimsby shook his head emphatically. “Mr. Webley often worked late and Parker had orders never to disturb him until his bell rang.” “I see,” said I. “So they unlocked the studio----” “Yes,” Grimsby went on, “and found him there--lying strangled on the floor.” “How long had he been dead?” “Well, the police surgeon says several hours. Everything points to the fact that it happened shortly after he entered the place.” “Someone may have been concealed there,” I suggested. “God knows!” Grimsby muttered. “I can’t find a thing to work upon. And in a case like this the first twelve hours are important. But here we are,” he added, nervously. At the head of that blind alley which shelters the all-but-indescribable establishment of Moris Klaw, we directed the taxi man to wait. This was a foggy afternoon and only dimly could we discern the lights in front of the shop. A chill in the atmosphere told of the nearness of old Father Thames, and as we approached that stacked-up lumber which represented the visible stock-in-trade of the proprietor, a singular piece of human flotsam was revealed propped against the door-post, a fragment of cigarette adhering to the corner of his mouth and threatening at any moment to ignite the stained and walrus-like moustache which distinguished William, Moris Klaw’s salesman. “Good afternoon,” I said; “will you tell Mr. Moris Klaw that I have called?” “Certainly, sir,” wheezed the inebriate. “Great pleasure, sir, I’m sure, sir.” William paused, turned, and looked back. “Do you mind a-waitin’ outside?” he added. “There’s a boy with red ’air ’angin’ about somewhere as ’as got ’is eye on this ’ere golf club”--indicating a dilapidated niblick. “If we all goes in ’e’ll nip orf with it.” Accordingly we lingered, and: “Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!” screeched the parrot who mounted guard within. Presently came Klaw’s unmistakable deep, rumbling voice from the interior gloom: “Ah! Good afternoon, Mr. Searles! Is it Detective-Inspector Grimsby you have with you? Good afternoon, Mr. Grimsby.” He advanced through the odorous shadows, a strange, a striking figure and--