He was astir early in the morning, but as he propped the _Daily Mail_ up by his eggs and bacon he forgot a healthy appetite as his eyes scanned the page which was practically all devoted to the round-up and captures of the preceding day. The final column of the "story" was headed: TRAGIC DEATH OF MR. SOLLY GERTSTEIN. Great Financier Dies of Heart Failure on Learning of his Wife's Arrest. "A tragic episode was added to this great feat of Scotland Yard on the receipt of the news in London last night. Some account of the affair was published in the last editions of the evening papers, and in the stop press column the name of Mrs. Adèle Gertstein was given in the list of persons who were detained by the police. "Late last evening Mr. Gertstein was found by one of his servants sitting fully dressed in his room with a copy of an evening paper clutched in his hand. A doctor was summoned but his assistance was of no avail. Mr. Gertstein was dead...." There followed a biographical sketch of the dead man's activities, and some speculation as to what might happen to the fortune he had left. Labar tossed the paper aside. "Poor old chap," he murmured. He turned thoughtfully to his breakfast. He was sorry in a way for the fate that had overtaken the little millionaire, but that was no reason why he should go hungry. It was a tragedy, of course, but he did not feel any personal responsibility. In charging Mrs. Gertstein he had acted merely as an agent of the law. He wondered what Penelope would have to say about it. Nothing could alter what had happened. What was the use of worrying. He finished his breakfast with zest, and pausing on his way out to glance in a mirror in the hall to assure himself that he was scrupulously dressed he set off for Grape Street. Both Marlow, the detective superintendent, and Moreland were already there, as well as a bunch of the divisional C.I.D. men. The inspector who had taken charge of the division during Labar's absence, slid out from his seat at the desk. "Just about your last day as a divisional detective inspector," smiled Marlow. "Slip into it, my lad. In an hour and a half you'll have to be in court." Labar flung himself on the pile of papers with desperate energy. He perceived that Moreland had taken many matters of detail into his own hands, for there were statements, signed by officers under the control of the latter, among the mass of documents. Now and then something arose on which he would seek the comment of his two confrères. Then it would happen that one of the waiting divisional staff would be despatched on some inquiry or other mission by which a point might be made clear.