Yes, I had not been mistaken. The first impression I had formed had been the right one, though I had tried to persuade myself it could not be. I was standing on the bank now, not ten yards from the object, and I could see distinctly what it was. A human body, fully clothed, lay there motionless--a man's body, face downward, the head almost submerged. My first thought was to plunge in and swim out to it and try to rescue the drowning man. But an instant's reflection caused me to refrain. The man, whoever he was, must be dead. He had been there a long time, or the head would not have sunk, nor, indeed, would the body have floated. I made my way as quickly as I could along the footpath on the bank until I reached the boathouse, a hundred yards away. It was locked. With a big stone I shattered the padlock, and in a minute I was rowing towards the body. With some difficulty I succeeded in hitching the painter round the feet. Having at last done so, I rowed back to the bank, towing the drowned man. And there I turned the body over. It must have been in the water many hours, probably all night, I saw at once. And directly I saw the face I recognised it, drawn and disfigured though it was. The drowned man was Thorold's butler, James. What had happened? Had he fallen into the lake while under the influence of drink? Had he committed suicide? Or had he-- Somehow this last reflection startled me. Was it possible there had been foul play? I had to leave the body there, for I found it impossible to lift it on to the bank without help. "The great house," as the tenantry called it, was still locked when I got back there. Silence still reigned everywhere. The driver of my taxi was fast asleep on his seat. When I prodded him with my stick he sat up with a start, and apologised. "Get back to Oakham as quickly as you can," I said to him as I stepped into the car and slammed the door. He turned his starting handle without result. He lifted the bonnet, and for a long time examined the machinery. Then, removing his coat, he wormed himself underneath the car, lying flat upon his back. When at last he emerged he was red in the face and perspiring freely. "Oh, by the way, sir," he said suddenly, picking up his coat and thrusting his hand into one of its pockets, "I think you dropped this." As he stopped speaking he pulled his hand out and held out to me a little silver flask about four inches square. I took it, and examined it. "This isn't mine," I said. "Where did you find it?" "Just there, sir," and he pointed to the ground beside the car. When I looked at the flask again, I noticed that the tiny shield in the middle was engraved. The engraving was a cipher, which, on scrutinising closely, I made out to be the letters "D.P." intertwined. I unscrewed the stopper and smelt the contents. The smell, though peculiar, was not wholly unfamiliar. Still, for the moment I could not classify it. "Didn't you drop it, sir?" "No."