“It has only just been discovered,” said he, as we crossed King’s Bench Walk. “The laundress who does his chambers and mine was battering at my door when I arrived--I don’t live in the Temple, you know. She was as pale as a ghost and in an awful state of alarm and agitation. It seems that she had gone up to Herrington’s chambers to get his breakfast ready as usual; but when she went into the sitting-room she found him lying dead on the floor. Thereupon she rushed down to my chambers--I am usually an early bird--and there I found her, as I said, battering at my door, although she has a key. “Well, I went up with her to my friend’s chambers--they are on the first floor, just over mine--and there, sure enough, was poor old Giles lying on the floor, cold and stiff. Evidently he had been lying there all night.” “Were there any marks of violence on the body?” I asked. “I didn’t notice any,” he replied, “but I didn’t look very closely. What I did notice was that the place was all in disorder--a chair overturned and things knocked off the table. It was pretty evident that there had been a struggle and that he had not met his death by fair means.” “And what do you want us to do?” I asked. “Well,” he replied, “I was Herrington’s friend; about the only friend he had, for he was not an amiable or a sociable man; and I am the executor of his will. “Appearances suggest very strongly that he has been murdered, and I take it upon myself to see that his murderer is brought to account. Our friendship seems to demand that. Of course, the police will go into the affair, and if it turns out to be all plain sailing, there will be nothing for you to do. But the murderer, if there is one, has got to be secured and convicted, and if the police can’t manage it, I want you and Thorndyke to see the case through. This is the place.” He hurried in through the entry and up the stairs to the first-floor landing, where he rapped loudly at the closed “oak” of a set of chambers above which was painted the name of “Mr. Giles Herrington.” After an interval, during which Mr. Bidwell repeated the summons, the massive door opened and a familiar face looked out: the face of Inspector Badger of the Criminal Investigation Department. The expression that it bore was not one of welcome, and my experience of the inspector caused me to brace myself up for the inevitable contest. “What is your business?” he inquired forbiddingly. Mr. Bidwell took the question to himself and replied: “I am Mr. Herrington’s executor, and in that capacity I have instructed Dr. Jervis and his colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, to watch the case on my behalf. I take it that you are a police officer?” “I am,” replied Badger, “and I can’t admit any unauthorized persons to these chambers.” “We are not unauthorized persons,” said Mr. Bidwell. “We are here on legitimate business. Do I understand that you refuse admission to the legal representatives of the deceased man?”