"We require circumstantial evidence," he answered, "definite evidence of some kind, which at present we haven't got. In cases such as this we can't arrest on suspicion. Much of my information about these people comes from George Preston. People of this description are extremely difficult to arrest, because, in spite of what is practically known about them, nothing against them can be proved. That is where their cleverness comes in—no matter what they do, they keep out of reach of the law. But come, Mr. Berrington, I must get you away at once—no, don't return to your room," as I was moving in that direction, "Come downstairs at once, and bring Miss Challoner with you—we won't go by the lift, if you don't mind." Dulcie had an evening wrap over her arm. Taking it from her, I wrapped it about her shoulders, then slipped on the thin overcoat I had with me. Quickly we followed Albeury to the end of the corridor. We were about to descend the stairs, when an unexpected sight arrested our attention. CHAPTER XXIII RELATES A QUEER ADVENTURE Up the great stairway, slowly, very carefully, came four men carrying a stretcher. The form extended upon it was completely covered by a white sheet, all but the feet—a man's feet. Behind and on each side were men, apparently gentlemen, all strangers to me. So deeply occupied were their thoughts, seemingly, that they appeared not to notice Albeury, Dulcie and myself as we stepped aside to let them pass. For the moment my attention was distracted. What had happened? Had there been an accident? If so, who was the victim, and who were these men with him? "Can you show me the way to room eight eight?" one of the leading bearers asked as he came up to me. He stopped, waiting for me to answer, and as he did so the men beside the stretcher gathered about me, so that for the instant I lost sight of Dulcie, who had instinctively stepped back a pace or two. I indicated the whereabouts of the room. "And can you tell me which is Mr. Berrington's room?" he then asked. "Yes. But I am Mr. Berrington. What is it you want?" "You are? Are you Mr. Michael Berrington?" "Yes." "Oh, then you had better come with us now." "Whom are you carrying? What has happened?" Without answering he moved onward down the corridor, with the stretcher. I walked a little way ahead, and at the room numbered eighty-eight, Mrs. Stapleton's room, I knocked. Again I was face to face with the woman. Seated in an arm-chair, a cigarette between her lips, she appeared to be reading a newspaper. Upon seeing me she rose abruptly; then, as the covered stretcher was borne slowly in, I saw the cigarette fall from her lips on to the floor, and with surprised, frightened eyes, she gazed inquiringly at the bearers, then down at the outline of the figure beneath the sheet. "Who is it?" she gasped. "Tell me who it is, and why he has been brought here!"