I had just closed the box when Thorndyke entered the room. His quick eye at once noted the changed objective and he remarked: “I see you have been having a look at the specimens.” “A specimen,” I corrected. “Enough is as good as a feast.” “Blessed are they who are easily satisfied,” he retorted; and then he added: “I have altered my arrangements, though I needn’t interfere with yours. I shall go down to Southaven to-night; in fact, I am starting in a few minutes.” “Why?” I asked. “For several reasons. I want to make sure of the post-mortem to-morrow morning, I want to pick up any further facts that are available, and finally, I want to prepare a set of blood-films from Robert Fletcher. We may as well make the series complete,” he added with a smile, to which I replied by a broad grin. “Really, Thorndyke,” I protested, “I’m surprised at you, at your age, too. She is a nice girl, but she isn’t so beautiful as to justify a hundred and eight blood-films.” I accompanied him to the taxi, followed by Polton, who carried his modest luggage, and then returned to speculate on his probable plan of campaign. For, of course, he had one. His purposive, resolute manner told me that he had seen farther into this case than I had. I accepted that as natural and inevitable. Indeed, I may admit that my disrespectful badinage covered a belief in his powers hardly second even to old Brodribb’s. I was, in fact, almost prepared to discover that those preposterous blood-films had, after all, yielded some “illuminating fact” which had sent him hurrying down to Southaven in search of corroboration. When I alighted from the train on the following day at a little past noon, I found him waiting on the platform, ready to conduct me to his hotel for an early lunch. “All goes well, so far,” he reported. “I attended the post-mortem, and examined the wound thoroughly. The pistol was held in the right hand not more than two inches from the head; probably quite close, for the skin is scorched and heavily tattooed with black powder grains. I find that Riggs was right-handed. So the prima facie probabilities are in favour of suicide; and the recent loss of money suggests a reasonable motive.” “But what about that blood in the hall?” “Oh, we have disposed of that. I completed the blood-film series last night.” I looked at him quickly to see if he was serious or only playing a facetious return-shot. But his face was as a face of wood. “You are an exasperating old devil, Thorndyke!” I exclaimed with conviction. Then, knowing that cross-examination would be futile, I asked: “What are we going to do after lunch?” “The inspector is going to show us over ‘the scene of the tragedy,’ as the newspapers would express it.”