“The station-master tells me that this is a case of homicide,” said the former, addressing us jointly. “That is what the appearances suggest,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a bullet wound, inflicted apparently at quite short range--the waistcoat is perceptibly singed--and we have found no weapon in the compartment.” The doctor stepped past us and proceeded to make a rapid examination of the body. “Yes,” he said, “I agree with you. The position of the wound and the posture of the body both suggest that death was practically instantaneous. If it had been suicide, the pistol would have been in the hand or on the floor. There is no clue to the identity of the murderer, I suppose?” “We found these on the floor under the dead man’s seat,” replied Thorndyke, indicating the letter and the handkerchief; “and there is some glass trodden into the carpet--apparently the remains of an electric flash-lamp.” The inspector pounced on the handkerchief and the letter, and having scrutinized the former vainly in search of name or initials, turned to the letter. “Why, this is a suffragist’s letter!” he exclaimed. “But it can’t have anything to do with this affair. They are mischievous beggars, but they don’t do this sort of thing.” Nevertheless, he carefully bestowed both articles in a massive wallet, and approaching the corpse, remarked: “We may as well see who he is while we are waiting for the stretcher.” With a matter-of-fact air, which seemed somewhat to shock the station-master, he unbuttoned the coat of the passive figure in the corner and thrust his hand into the breast pocket, drawing out a letter-case which he opened, and from which he extracted a visiting card. As he glanced at it, his face suddenly took on an expression of amazement. “God!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Who do you think he is, doctor? He is Mr. Francis Burnham!” The doctor looked at him with an interrogative frown. “Burnham--Burnham,” he repeated. “Let me see, now----” “Don’t you know? The anti-suffrage man. Surely----” “Yes, yes,” interrupted the doctor. “Of course I remember him. The arch-enemy of the suffrage movement and--yes, of course.” The doctor’s brisk speech changed abruptly into a hesitating mumble. Like the inspector, he had suddenly “seen a great light”; and again, like the officer, his perception had begotten a sudden reticence. Thorndyke glanced at his watch. “Our train is a minute overdue,” said he. “We ought to get back to the platform.” Taking a card from his case, he handed it to the inspector, who looked at it and slightly raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think my evidence will be of much value,” said he; “but, of course, I am at your service if you want it.” With this and a bow to the doctor and the station-master, he climbed down to the ground; and when I had given the inspector my card, I followed, and we made our way to the platform.