The foreman had called on Mr. Briggs, and had been given the duplicate key. But when he came to try the door, it would not open. He made several attempts but, finding them unavailing, desisted and made his way through a window at the back. He then discovered that the door was bolted on the inside, a circumstance which puzzled him tremendously. Shortly afterwards the electrician arrived, and his thoughts were diverted into other channels. Inspector Whyland spent a few minutes talking to the foreman, who confirmed the latter part of Houlder’s story, and had barely finished his enquiries when the doctor arrived. The two went down to the cellar together, and the doctor, without wasting words, proceeded to examine the body, Whyland watching him intently. “Poisoned!” pronounced the doctor, after a short interval. “Prussic acid, by all signs of it, but I can’t be sure till I’ve made a post-mortem. You’ll have him taken to the mortuary, of course? Queer place to choose for suicide. How did he get in here?” Inspector Whyland shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a case of suicide, doctor. Look here!” He pointed to the numbered counter. The doctor glanced at it and sniffed contemptuously. “You fellows have got counters on the brain since that business last month,” he said. “How do you know he didn’t put it there himself to throw you off the scent? It’s not uncommon for suicides to try and make their deaths look like murder. You’ll find there’s some question of insurance behind it. Well, I’ll be along at the mortuary and let you know the result of the p.m.” The doctor bustled away, and Whyland, having made arrangements for the removal of the body, made a very careful examination of the cellar. This done, he sent the constable for the electrician, and asked him to look round and see if he could find anything which had not been there when he left on Saturday. The man looked about him carefully, and suddenly pointed to the ceiling with an exclamation of astonishment. “Why, there’s the butt of a broken lamp in that holder, sir,” he said. “I didn’t put no lamps in before I left. That’s one of the things I came here to do to-day.” “Well, take it out and put in a fresh lamp,” replied Whyland. “I didn’t know the current was on. We’ll be able to see what we’re doing.” The electrician obeyed him, and no sooner had he put the new lamp in the holder than the cellar was flooded with light. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “The switch is on. I’ll swear I left it off on Saturday. Why, that’s queer! This isn’t the butt of an ordinary lamp at all. Looks to me like one of them electric detonator things, made to go into a lamp-socket. And it’s gone off, too. You can see where it’s blackened, sir.” “Was the current on on Saturday?” asked Whyland, quickly. “Yes, sir, I connected up in the morning,” replied the electrician. “Somebody must have put that thing in the lamp-holder, then turned the switch on. Well, that’s a rum go, and no mistake.”