That night, at about eight o’clock, a familiar tattoo on our knocker announced the arrival of Mr. Superintendent Miller, not entirely unexpected, as I guessed. “Well,” he said, as I let him in, “the coloured nobleman has come home. I’ve just had a message from the man who was detailed to watch the premises.” “Are you going to make the arrest now?” asked Thorndyke. “Yes, and I should be glad if you could come across with me. You know more about the case than I do.” Thorndyke assented at once, and we set forth together. As we entered Tanfield Court we passed a man who was lurking in the shadow of an entry, and who silently indicated the lighted windows of the chambers for which we were bound. Ascending the stairs up which I had lately climbed with unlawful intent, we halted at Mr. Essien’s door, on which the superintendent executed an elaborate flourish with his stick, there being no knocker. After a short interval we heard a bolt withdrawn, the door opened a short distance, and in the interval a black face appeared, looking out at us suspiciously. “Who are you, and what do you want?” the owner of the face demanded gruffly. “You are Mr. Kwaku Essien, I think?” said Miller, unostentatiously insinuating his foot into the door opening. “Yes,” was the reply. “But I don’t know you. What is your business?” “I am a police officer,” Miller replied, edging his foot in a little farther, “and I hold a warrant to arrest you on the charge of having murdered Mr. Giles Herrington.” Before the superintendent had fairly finished his sentence, the dusky face vanished and the door slammed violently--on to the superintendent’s massive foot. That foot was instantly reinforced by a shoulder and for a few moments there was a contest of forces, opposite but not equal. Suddenly the door flew open and the superintendent charged into the room. I had a momentary vision of a flying figure, closely pursued, darting through into an inner room, of the slamming of a second door--once more on an intercepting foot. And then--it all seemed to have happened in a few seconds--a dejected figure, sitting on the edge of a bed, clasping a pair of manacled hands and watching Miller as he drew the elephant’s tail out of a drawer in the dressing chest. “This--er--article,” said Miller, “belonged to Mr. Herrington, and was stolen from his premises on the night of the murder.” Essien shook his head emphatically. “No,” he replied. “You are wrong. I stole nothing, and I did not murder Mr. Herrington. Listen to me and I will tell you all about it.” Miller administered the usual caution and the prisoner continued: