"I am a doctor," said a voice behind me. I was not invited, but I followed the doctor. The space available for the artistes was very small. There was little more than passageway between the tent wall and the stage built up some three feet from the ground, and we had to step over the various paraphernalia which was necessary for the performance. What had happened was this. A projecting piece of woodwork had caught Pomona's dress as she passed, tearing off one of the white pompons, which had rolled underneath the platform. She saw it, as she supposed, lying in a dark corner, and stooped to reach it. What she had caught sight of, and what she caught hold of, was a man's hand, a cold hand. Brothers Pluto and Pompey were beside her a moment afterwards, and had dragged a body from under the stage. It was Brother Pythagoras, the performer who was supposed to have gone to London on the previous night. He was dressed in his pierrot costume, but had been dead some hours, the doctor said, death being due to a blow on the head, from a stick, probably. I told the story to Quarles as we walked to the hotel. "Does the doctor suggest an accident?" he asked. "No." "How long, in his opinion, had the man been dead?" "Some hours." "Twenty-four?" "I particularly asked that question," I answered. "He thought death had taken place that day." "It may be an interesting case," said Quarles doubtfully. "I suppose I can see the body." "I have arranged that." "Who are these brothers and sisters?" "Pluto and Psyche are husband and wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She is a Colonial, and he has been in the Colonies for a year or two. It is their second season of entertaining in this country. Pompey, whose name is Smith, and Penelope, otherwise Miss Travers, have been with them from the first. Pomona, otherwise Miss Day, only joined them this season, and is evidently a lady. The dead man, Henley by name, joined them after the season had commenced, taking the place of a man who fell ill. He has been very reticent about himself." "According to Watson, I suppose?" said Quarles. "They were all agreed upon that point," I answered. "On what points were they not agreed?" Quarles asked quickly. "Well, although they all spoke in the warmest terms of their comrade, it struck me they were not all so fond of him as they made out." "What makes you think that?" "The way they looked at the dead man. Naturally, I was watching them rather keenly as the doctor made his examination." "That is rather an interesting idea, Wigan, and has possibilities in it; still, a murdered man is not a pleasant sight, and the artistic temperament must be taken into consideration."