I entered the house inclined to smile, but the inclination vanished as I went upstairs. No doubt these two had seen me last night, and it was fortunate, perhaps, that I was a detective, and not an ordinary individual. And yet a detective might commit murder. It was an unpleasant thought, unpleasant enough to make me wish I had mentioned last night's adventure to the chief. A constable I knew was on the top landing, and entered the rooms with me. Parrish had not been moved. He was lying by the table; had probably fallen forward out of his chair. A thin-bladed knife had been driven downwards, at the base of the neck, apparently by some one who had stood behind him. I judged, and a doctor presently confirmed my judgment, that he had been dead some hours; must have met his death soon after I had left him. As far as I could tell, the papers on the table were in exactly the same position as I had seen them, and the finished work which he had taken out of his drawers to show me had not been replaced. The fact seemed to add to the awkwardness of my position. The first thing I did was to telegraph to Christopher Quarles. I do not remember ever being more keen for his help. I occupied the time of waiting in a careful examination of the rooms and the stairs, and in making enquiries in the offices in the building. The first thing I told Quarles, on his arrival, was my adventure last night, and the awkward fact that two people had recognized me this morning. "Then we mustn't fail this time, Wigan," he said gravely. "It is a pity you did not mention the adventure to your chief." "Yes, but--" "You'd suspect a man with less evidence against him," Quarles answered quickly. "We'll look at the rooms, and the dead man, then you had better go back to the Yard and tell your chief all about it." Our search revealed very little. It was evident that Parrish had lived a lonely life, as he had told me. His evening dinner at Warburton's appeared to have been his only real meal of the day. There was a half-empty tin of biscuits in the cupboard, and some coffee and tea, but no other food whatever, nor evidence that it was ever kept there. I have said the clothes he was wearing were shabby, but there was a shabbier suit still lying at the bottom of a drawer, and his stock of shirts and underclothing reached the minimum. Practically, there were no papers, only a few receipted bills for material for his work, a few advertisements still in their wrappers, and two letters which had not been opened.