The lady and I were across the threshold. I was about to slam the door in the face of the rabble, when some one came hurrying through the crowd. A voice exclaimed-- “Stop that! Don’t shut that door! Let me in!” It was Inspector Symonds; with, as it seemed, a friend or two. CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE PASSAGE The inspector I dragged in by the collar of his coat. I slammed the door in the faces of his friends, keeping my foot against it while I shot the bolts. “This won’t do! I’m not going to stand any more of your nonsense! You let my men in!” There was a flaming gas-bracket in the passage. By its flare I eyed the inspector. “You be so good as to understand, Mr. Symonds, that I’m going to have no more of your nonsense.” He put his hand up to his mouth--a whistle between his fingers. Gripping his wrist, I pinned him by the throat against the wall. “If you are not careful, you’ll get hurt.” He gasped out, between his clenched teeth, “I’ll make you pay for this! You let my men in!” “I’ll not let your men in--until you and I have had an explanation.” The lady interposed. “Don’t hurt him!” “I’ll not hurt him--unless he compels me. Look here, Symonds, there’s been a mystification--a hideous blunder.” “I don’t want to have anything to say to you. You open that door!” His hands returned to his lips. Again I had to pin him against the wall; this time I wrenched the whistle from between his fingers. “If you give any sort of signal, you’ll be sorry.” “You’ve broken my wrist!” “I haven’t; but I will if you don’t look out. I tell you, man, that we’ve been on the wrong scent; you and I, and all of us. It isn’t Edwin Lawrence who’s been murdered; he isn’t even dead.” “Don’t tell your tales to me.” “Tales! I tell you tales! Here’s Mr. Edwin Lawrence to tell his own.” Lawrence was standing a few steps farther down the passage, an apparently interested spectator of what had been taking place. Symonds turned to him. “This man? Who is this man?” Lawrence thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes. “I’m the corpse on whom the coroner’s been sitting.” “Don’t play your mountebank tricks with me, sir.” “I’m the murdered man.” “Indeed? And pray what may be your name?” “Edwin Lawrence--at your service, entirely to command. Though I may mention that that’s only a form of words; since, at present, I’m really, and actually, in the service of another--a lady. Bound to her hand and foot by a tie there’s no dissolving.” Symonds perceived that in his manner, to say the least, there was something curious. As he looked at me I endeavoured to give him the assurance which I saw that he required. “It is Mr. Edwin Lawrence, you may safely take my word for it. The lady can confirm what I say.” Which the lady did upon the instant. The inspector was still, plainly, in a state of uncertainty; which, under the circumstances, was scarcely strange.