“Isis, my child,” he said, “awake me in two hours.” Removing his caped coat and revealing the shabby tweed suit which he wore beneath it, he spread the garment on the carpet, stretched his gaunt shape upon it, and rested his head on the red cushion. “Gentlemen,” he said in his queer, rumbling tones, “leave me to my slumber. When I awake, I perhaps shall know something more about the man who smoked”--he tapped long fingers upon his breast pocket--“this cigarette.” We went out of the studio through the door leading to the garden. Isis was last to leave and I heard her father’s voice: “Isis, my child, be pleased to extinguish the lights.” So, leaving the eccentric investigator to his dark and ghastly vigil, we went up to the house; and, taking pity upon Grimsby, whose anxiety to talk to Isis was almost pathetic, I sought out Parker, the dead artist’s manservant, and endeavoured to obtain from him some useful information. In this, however, I was wholly unsuccessful. “He hadn’t an enemy in the world, sir,” the man declared emotionally. “He was the best employer I’ve ever had or am ever likely to have. I don’t deny that he had his little affairs, sir, but there was nothing that left a nasty taste behind. Believe me, there was no woman in it, like the Scotland Yard men tried to make out.” And indeed, the more I considered the facts of the case, the more inexplicable these became. For instance, there were no signs of a struggle. If one had taken place the murderer had removed all traces of it before leaving. Upon the fingerprint evidence which Scotland Yard hoped to obtain, I based little hope of result. But the astute perceptions of Moris Klaw had undoubtedly enabled him to pick up a clue where no one else had found one; and strange though his behaviour appeared to be, I had good reason to know that his subconscious mind, termed by him “the astral negative,” rarely failed to obtain some record under conditions such as those which, he maintained, prevail upon the scene of a crime of violence. When at the appointed time we returned to the studio, we found it to be brightly lighted, and entering, discovered Moris Klaw engaged in squirting verbena upon his high, bald forehead. He stooped and picked up the caped coat. “Ah, my friends,” he said, “there are many laws governing the functions of mind which have yet to be classified. I think so; yes. Why is it that some emotions register”--he waved his long hands in the air--“indelibly; others, impermanently, and some, not at all? I ask myself the question, and no one replies. We are, then, ignorant, and stupid. To-night”--he lowered his voice--“I do murder with my bare hands! Yes! I am the assassin! My motive----” “Yes, yes!” cried Grimsby, eagerly. “No, no!” Moris Klaw frowned at him. “My motive beats in my brain, my second brain, my subconscious brain. Myself I do not see, nor my victim; but I hear, I _hear_. I hear a _sound!_”