“My first impression of this affair was, as you know, that it was a straightforward murder, committed by some member of this household. Later, I had good reason to search this table here, and it was from the time of that search that I began to revise my theories. In this table I found—as I had expected—a drawer hidden from the casual eye. From that drawer I took some letters, a collection of newspaper-cuttings, a memorandum book, and other papers. You shall see them all in due course. “The letters gave me my first inkling that there was something more obscure about the case than I had thought. So I went to the lady who had written those letters. From her I got the first pieces of the story, not without difficulty. I also went to see a man who had once been Hoode’s secretary. He was obliging and clever. He had seen things, heard things, while he served Hoode, that had set him thinking. He thought so much that he employed, on his own initiative, a private detective. I have seen the detective. The detective, even after he was told to drop the business, went on detecting. You see, he had become interested. He is not a nice man. He smelt scandal and money. He, without knowing it, has helped me to piece together the whole amazing story—the story which shows how it was that John Hoode was not killed.” Anthony paused, taking a last puff at his cigarette. Sir Arthur, gray of face, hammered with his fists on the leather-padded arms of his chair. “But the body!” he gasped. “The body! It was there!” He glanced wildly over his shoulder at the fireplace. “I saw it! I tell you I saw it!” His voice gathered strength. “And the inquest, the arrests, the identifications! And the funeral! Why, you fool!” he cried in a great voice, “the funeral is to-morrow. All England will be there! And you tell me this absurd story. What in God’s name has come to you that you can play pranks of this sort? Haven’t we all suffered enough without this?” The man was shaking. Anthony sat up. “Wait!” he said. “And let me finish. I said that John Hoode had not been murdered. I did not say that no murder had been done. Murder was done. I know it. You know it. The world knows it. But what you and the world do not know is that the body upon which the inquest was held, the body which is to be buried to-morrow, is not the body of John Hoode!” Sir Arthur glared at him. “What does this mean?” he said, and his lips trembled. “What is all this? I don’t understand! I—I——” Sleep was creeping insidiously upon Anthony. He wished that the storm had not ceased. Its violence had at least helped to keep one awake, helped to conquer this deadly fatigue which made talking so great an effort.