“A sound,” Isis whispered. “Do you mean a horrible sound--his death cry?” “No, no!” her father assured her. “I hear a _beautiful_ sound.” IV Time passed and no arrest was made. Other matters engaged public attention, and the Chelsea studio murder gradually dropped out of sight, occupying less and less space in the press and presently disappearing altogether. Between Inspector Grimsby and Moris Klaw a definite breach occurred. “He’s either bluffing or else hiding something,” the Inspector declared to me. “Why did he keep that cigarette? What the devil was the sound he heard, or thought he heard, or pretended he heard? All I know is that I’ve made a fool of myself. There’s not a ghost of a clue.” I was not without sympathy for Grimsby. He had grown so used to finding his difficulties resolved by the genius of Wapping Old Stairs, that beyond doubt in the Chelsea case he had promised more than he had been able to perform, optimistically trusting Klaw to provide light in the darkness; and the great man had proved to be fallible. It was a dreadful blow to Detective-Inspector Grimsby, and, I must confess, a surprise to me. Although I had no definite evidence, I nevertheless had certain reasons to suppose that Moris Klaw was not entirely inactive during this time. Twice I met him, accompanied by the dazzling Isis, in the neighbourhood of Queen’s Hall, and on the second occasion as he entered a car which was waiting for him: “Mr. Searles,” he said, “tell him, that Detective Inspector, that all work and no play makes of Jean a dull fellow. Recommend to him music. Tell him he should sometimes steal an afternoon and at a concert relax himself.” I reported the conversation to Grimsby in due course and had never seen him more angry. “He’s pulling my leg!” he said. “It’ll be a long time before I ask him to help me again. Concerts! What time have _I_ got for concerts?” Such, then, was the state of affairs at the time that Len Hassett, a black-and-white artist of my acquaintance whose work was beginning to attract attention, leased the house and studio of ill-fame where poor Pyke Webley had met his death. Hassett was ultra-modern and very morbid, but although he professed to have taken the place because its murderous atmosphere appealed to him, I had more than a suspicion that the low rental, consequent upon its evil reputation, had done much more to influence his decision. However, in due course I received an invitation to the house-warming, and on the same day a telephone message from Moris Klaw. “Good morning, Mr. Searles,” came his rumbling greeting over the wires; “it is very wet again. This appalling English climate becomes disastrous. I have lost in one week two marmosets and a Peruvian squirrel. They see the fog and rain, they sneeze, they cough, they die. I have to make to you a request, Mr. Searles: it is that you secure for myself and Isis the invitation to Mr. Len Hassett’s party at his new studio.”