Poole was shown into a large room, full—or so it seemed—of dark heavy furniture and a countless array of signed photographs; on the big writing-table, Their Gracious Majesties; on the mantelpiece, Their various Royal Highnesses—mostly ten or twenty years younger than life; on occasional tables and round the walls the lesser, but still noble fry: Caroline Kent, Minon Lancashire, Grace Wilbraham-Hamilton, George Gurgles—“truthfully yours,” leaders of fashion, men and women of the world, actors and actresses—of the type eligible for “birthday honours”—sportsmen, financiers—yes, prominently now, though probably retrieved by recent notoriety from comparative obscurity, an indifferent portrait of “Garth Fratten.” Naturally, Inspector Poole did not take in all these photographic “warrants” at one glance, rather they impressed themselves upon his sub-conscious notice and gradually presented themselves one by one, during the course of the interview, to his observant eye. At the moment he was engaged in taking in the principal feature of the room, Sir Horace Spavage himself. Sir Horace was not a tall man, he was in fact, about five foot six, but he was, as he liked to put it, a man of good proportions and of a noticeable presence. His hair was now white and rather long, he had a curling white moustache, good teeth—too good to be true—and more than a suspicion of side-whiskers. He wore a frock-coat and a double cravat embellished by a fine pearl pin. When Poole entered, Sir Horace was standing behind his desk, tapping the former’s card against his well-kept nails. After a quick glance at his visitor, to see perhaps if he looked sufficiently noble to be shaking hands with, Sir Horace abandoned any such intention that he may have fostered, and waved to a chair. “Sit down, Mr.—er—Poole. What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?” The detective remained standing. He handed across the table his official card. “That will explain who I am, sir. I thought it better not to send it in by your servant; the matter is confidential.” Sir Horace frowned. He also remained standing. “What is it you want, Inspector? I have only a few minutes. My next patient . . .” “I quite understand, sir. I have been instructed to make one or two enquiries about the death of Sir Garth Fratten. Some question has been raised about the actual cause of death—about the circumstances, too, that led up to it. As regards the first question, you, naturally, can give us the information we want.” “You will find the necessary information in my death certificate, Inspector. I don’t understand the necessity for your coming to me about it. The matter was all in order.” “Quite so, sir, but I shall be glad, all the same, if you will tell me about it in your own words. Possibly some amplification of the information contained in the certificate may clear things up.” “What do you mean, ‘clear things up’? There is nothing to clear up, so far as I know.”