The room was in some disarray, but not in such disorder as to suggest that a desperate struggle had taken place. A chair or two and a table were not in the places in which I knew they generally stood; the table on which we had played that game of cards last night was pushed up against another, on which were some copper vases. A revolving bookcase had been driven up against the fireplace. On the woodwork were gouts of blood. There was a blotch on the back of one of the books--a volume of Rudyard Kipling’s “Many Inventions.” On the edge of the white stone mantelpiece was the mark of where a hand had rested--a blood-stained hand. Something lay on the carpet, perhaps two yards away from the dead man’s feet. I took it up. It was a collar--a man’s collar--shapeless and twisted and stiff with coagulated blood. As I stared at it a wild wonder began to take shape and to grow in my brain. “Ferguson, what’s the matter? What’s this Atkins tells me about? Good God! is that Lawrence?” It was Dr. Hume who spoke. He had come into the room while I was staring at the collar. Graham Hume is a man who has taken high medical honours; but, having ample private means, he does not pretend to have anything in the shape of a regular practice. He has a hobby--madness. He is a student of what he calls obscure diseases of the brain; insisting that we have all of us a screw loose somewhere, and that out of every countenance insanity peeps--even though, as a rule, thank goodness, it is only the shadow of a shade. Some strange stories are told of experiments which he has made. His chambers are on the ground floor; and, though he has a plate on his door, his patients are few and far between--nor are they by any means always welcome even when they do appear. Probably the larger number of them are residents in the Mansions, and because that was so, any one living in the buildings being in sudden need of medical help used to rush at once to him. Lawrence used to chaffingly speak of him as “the Imperial Doctor.” Hume was still in the prime of life--perhaps forty, of medium height, sparely built, with clean-shaven face, high forehead, and coal-black hair. A good fellow, in his fashion; but with rather a too professional outlook on to the world. I always felt that he regarded every one with whom he came in contact--man, woman, or child--as a possible subject for experiment. Personally, I was conscious of feeling no dislike for him; but I had a sort of suspicion that he did not like me. “Yes,” I replied; “that’s Lawrence--what’s left of him.” He was kneeling by the dead man on the floor, his usually impassive face all alert and eager. “How has this happened--and when?” “That is what has to be discovered.” “Who found him?” “Atkins and I.” “Was he lying in this position?” “No; he was on his face. We turned him over.” “The man’s been cut to pieces.” “It almost looks to me as if he had been scratched to pieces.”