“Facts are these,” resumed the British representative. “Stephney had landed at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of the steamship company’s detectives who were watching all embarking passengers.” “Was that the _Carpathia_?” asked Fay. “Yes--the _Carpathia_! Stephney came down the gangplank, turned at the customroom, went inside a telephone booth, came out and was observed taking a gray taxi at the foot of the dock. That was the last seen of him until the chief of the railroad detectives at Poughkeepsie found his body on top of a goods-train. Skull was slightly crushed. Pockets rifled. Portfolio, with banknotes and memoranda, missing.” “Quick work!” “Beastly quick!” shot back Hilton through rigid lips. “Beastly clever, too!” The British representative glanced toward the doorway before which the portiéres draped. He strode to Fay’s side and leaned forward as his fingers clutched the investigator’s left shoulder in the grip of a bulldog. “Stephney didn’t die from the crushed skull,” he said tersely. “That accident came afterward. He was killed by an unknown method. He was lured to death in the heart of civilization!” “An unknown method?” “Fact! Had the coroner of Poughkeepsie on the wire not an hour ago. A surgeon from Plattsburg happened to assist at the autopsy. It was he who detected the condition of the lungs. Also, Stephney’s face was greenish-black.” Fay backed away and allowed Sir Arthur’s hand to drop. His eyes glazed with speculation. They hardened. “You have other facts?” he asked. “Little more! Stephney was last seen alive getting into a gray taxi which disappeared soon afterward. He was headed for this hotel. I sat up until three o’clock waiting for him.” “Who else knew he was coming to New York?” “The Washington Embassy.” “Who knew it in London?” “Downing Street.” “Whom do you suspect?” “American crooks.” “Everybody blames them--for everything.” Sir Arthur frowned. “I’ve given you the case--on account of Mr. Mott’s interest in ex-convicts and the Gray Brotherhood.” “Oh, I’ll take it. I’ll jump! I want all the facts you can allow me to have.” “I’ve given you everything. The body found at Poughkeepsie on top of the goods-train was Stephney’s. There’s no doubt of that. He was first identified by the tailor’s name in his pockets--Concre, of London, I think. We’ve a solicitor up there who made a complete identification.” “Did Stephney ever visit New York before?” “Once, two years ago--just after the end of the war.” “Would he know any women here?” “Hardly! He was to come right to me!” Fay moved a chair and lifted his cap. He turned at the portiéres. His glance toward Arthur Hilton was one of understanding. “You and Mr. Mott alone know that I am on this case?” “It is locked with us!” “I have carte blanche?” “Up to ten thousand pounds.” “Good-by!” said Fay, creasing his checked cap as he parted the curtains and strode through the suite to the hallway of the hotel.