"I'm afraid nothing can be done, sir. He is--gone." "Oh, yes, he's gone!" said the other quite calmly. He stooped down, turned back the man's coat, and slipped his hand into the inside pocket, but drew blank; the pocket was empty. With an extraordinary rapidity of movement, he continued his search, and to the astonishment of Frank Merrill the policeman did not deny his right. In the top left-hand pocket of the waistcoat he pulled out a crumpled slip which proved to be a newspaper clipping. "Ah!" said the little man. "An advertisement for a manservant cut out of this morning's _Daily Telegraph_; I saw it myself. Evidently a manservant who was on his way to interview a new employer. You see: 'Call at eight-thirty at Holborn Viaduct Hotel.' He was taking a short cut when his illness overcame him. I know who is advertising for the valet," he added gratuitously; "he is a Mr. T. Burton, who is a rubber factor from Penang. Mr. T. Burton married the daughter of the Reverend George Smith, of Scarborough, in 1889, and has four children, one of whom is at Winchester. Hum!" He pursed his lips and looked down again at the body; then suddenly he turned to Frank Merrill. "Do you know this man?" he demanded. Frank looked at him in astonishment. "No. Why do you ask?" "You were looking at him as though you did," said the little man. "That is to say, you were not looking at his face. People who do not look at other people's faces under these circumstances know them." "Curiously enough," said Frank, with a little smile, "there is some one here I know," and he caught the eye of Constable Wiseman. That ornament of the Sussex constabulary touched his cap. "I thought I recognized you, sir. I have often seen you at Weald Lodge," he said. Further conversation was cut short as they lifted the body on to a stretcher and put it into the interior of the ambulance. The little group watched the white car disappear, and the crowd of idlers began to melt away. Constable Wiseman took a professional leave of his comrade, and came back to Frank a little shyly. "You are Mr. Minute's nephew, aren't you, sir?" he asked. "Quite right," said Frank. "I used to see you at your uncle's place." "Uncle's name?" It was the little man's pert but wholly inoffensive inquiry. He seemed to ask it as a matter of course and as one who had the right to be answered without equivocation. Frank Merrill laughed. "My uncle is Mr. John Minute," he said, and added, with a faint touch of sarcasm: "You probably know him."