Poole sprang back from the window, thrust the knife into Ryland’s free hand, and darted down the passage into the clerks’ room. The outer door on to the staircase was locked, the key nowhere to be seen. It was useless to return to the Board room; that would mean certainly one, and probably two locked doors. Placing the muzzle of his pistol against the keyhole Poole fired twice, then, drawing back, crashed his heel twice above the shattered lock. The door, of course, was made to open inwards and so could not be forced out, but after two more shots the detective was able to tear his way out on to the landing. Dashing down the stairs, three steps at a time, Poole rushed out into the street and up an alley on the right of Ald House. In a small yard at the back, he came upon Detective Fallows seated on the ground, propped against the wall, his face white and a bleeding cut on his forehead. A few yards away lay a huddled form. Poole strode up to it and flashed his torch upon the face. What seemed to be a black wig had been forced over one ear, a broken dental plate protruded from the gaping mouth, but, in the bright beam of light, there was no mistaking the dead face of Leopold Hessel. CHAPTER XXVI . . . May Be Blind Poole turned back towards his unfortunate subordinate. “What happened?” he asked curtly. “Where’s that constable?” “Revolver, sir, I think,” replied Fallows weakly “—hit me with it—on the head. Munt ran to the body—when it fell. I waited—below stairs—there’s a drop. Chap jumped—hit at me as he came down—knocked me out. Don’t know—where—Munt is.” He gave a gasp and collapsed into unconsciousness. Poole straightened himself and turned again towards the alley-way. As he did so, Ryland Fratten emerged from it, hobbling uncertainly. “Sorry I couldn’t get out before, Inspector,” he said. “My legs were asleep—they’ll hardly carry me now.” “What were you doing up—no, never mind that now; we must find these people.” He ran down into the street and looked to right and left. From the direction of Cannon Street Station a disconsolate-looking uniformed police-constable was approaching at an awkward shuffle. “Where the hell have you been?” demanded the Inspector angrily. “Where have those people got to?”