Thorndyke’s prediction was verified literally. In response to the third knock, with an obbligato accompaniment on the bell, wrathful footsteps--I had no idea footsteps could be so expressive--advanced rapidly along the lobby, the door was wrenched open--but only for a few inches--and an angry, hairy face appeared in the opening. “Now then,” the hairy person demanded, “what the deuce do you want?” “Are you Mr. William Ponting?” the superintendent inquired. “What the devil is that to do with you?” was the genial answer--in the Scottish mode. “We have business,” Miller began persuasively. “So have I,” the presumable Ponting replied, “and mine won’t wait.” “But our business is very important,” Miller urged. “So is mine,” snapped Ponting, and would have shut the door but for Miller’s obstructing foot, at which he kicked viciously, but with unsatisfactory results, as he was shod in light slippers, whereas the superintendent’s boots were of constabulary solidity. “Now, look here,” said Miller, dropping his conciliatory manner very completely, “you’d better stop this nonsense. I am a police officer, and I am going to come in”; and with this he inserted a massive shoulder and pushed the door open. “Police officer, are you?” said Ponting. “And what might your business be with me?” “That is what I have been waiting to tell you,” said Miller. “But we don’t want to do our talking here.” “Very well,” growled Ponting. “Come in. But understand that I am busy. I’ve been interrupted enough this evening.” He led the way into a rather barely furnished room with a wide bay-window in which was a table fitted with a writing-slope and lighted by an electric standard lamp. A litter of manuscript explained the nature of his business and his unwillingness to receive casual visitors. He sulkily placed three chairs, and then, seating himself, glowered at Thorndyke and me. “Are they police officers, too?” he demanded. “No,” replied Miller, “they are medical gentlemen. Perhaps you had better explain the matter, doctor,” he added, addressing Thorndyke, who thereupon opened the proceedings. “We have called,” said he, “to inform you that Miss Millicent Fawcett died suddenly this evening.” “The devil!” exclaimed Ponting. “That’s sudden with a vengeance. What time did this happen?” “About a quarter to nine.” “Extraordinary!” muttered Ponting. “I saw her only the day before yesterday, and she seemed quite well then. What did she die of?” “The appearances,” replied Thorndyke, “suggest suicide.” “Suicide!” gasped Ponting. “Impossible! I can’t believe it. Do you mean to tell me she poisoned herself?” “No,” said Thorndyke, “it was not poison. Death was caused by injuries to the throat inflicted with a razor.”