After some preliminary remarks the terrible business of getting the remains from the crate was undertaken. Such work would have been distressing at all times, but in the present case two facts made it almost unbearable. In the first place, the man had been dead for a considerable time, estimated by the doctors as from five to six weeks, and in the second his face had been appallingly maltreated. Indeed, it might be said to be nonexistent, so brutally had it been battered in. All the features were destroyed and only an awful pulp remained. However, the work had to be done, and presently the body was lying on a table which had been placed for the purpose in an outhouse. It was dressed in underclothes only—shirt, vest, drawers and socks. The suit, collar, tie, and shoes had been removed. An examination showed that none of the garments bore initials. Nor were there any helpful marks on the crate. There were tacks where a label had been attached, but the label had been torn off. A round steel bar of three or four stone weight had also been put in, evidently to ensure the crate sinking. The most careful examination revealed no clue to the man’s identity. Who he was and why he had been murdered were as insoluble problems as how the crate came to be where it was found. For over an hour the little party discussed the matter, and then the chief constable came to a decision. “I don’t believe it’s a local case,” he announced. “That crate must in some way have come from a ship. I don’t see how it could have been got there from the shore. And if it’s not a local case, I think we’ll consider it not our business. We’ll call in Scotland Yard. Let them have the trouble of it. I’ll ring up the Home Office now and we’ll have a man here this evening. To-morrow will be time enough for the inquest, and the C. I. D. man will be here and can ask what questions he likes.” Thus it came to pass that Inspector Joseph French on that same afternoon travelled westwards by the 1.55 P.M. luncheon car express from Paddington. Chapter Two Inspector French Gets Busy Dusk was already falling when a short, rather stout man with keen blue eyes from which a twinkle never seemed far removed, alighted from the London train at Burry Port and made his way to Sergeant Nield, who was standing near the exit, scrutinising the departing travellers. “My name is French,” the stranger announced—“Inspector French of the C. I. D. I think you are expecting me?” “That’s right, sir. We had a phone from headquarters that you were coming on this train. We’ve been having trouble, as you’ve heard.” “I don’t often take a trip like this without finding trouble at the end of it. We’re like yourself, Sergeant—we have to go out to look for it. But we don’t often have to look for it in such fine country as this. I’ve enjoyed my journey.”