"Then it is true! It is suicide?" T. B. looked past him. "If a man cut his own head off before jumping into the river, it was suicide," he said carefully, "for the body is headless. As for myself, I have never witnessed such a phenomenon, and I am sceptical." A train drew into the arrival platform at Waterloo and a tall man alighted. Nearer at hand he did not appear to be so young as the first impression suggested. For there was a powdering of grey at each temple and certain definite lines about his mouth. His face was tanned brown, and it required no great powers of observation and deduction to appreciate the fact that he had recently returned to England after residence in a hot climate. He stood on the edge of the curb outside the new entrance of the station, hesitating whether he should take his chance of finding a cab or whether he should pick up one in the street, for the night was wet and cold and his train had been full. Whilst he stood a big taxi came noiselessly to the curb and the driver touched his cap. "Thank you," said the man with a smile. "You can drive me to the Metropole." He swung the door open and his foot was on the step when a hand touched him lightly, and he turned to meet the scrutiny of a pair of humorous grey eyes. "I think you had better take another cab, Dr. Goldworthy," said the stranger. "I am afraid----" began the doctor. The driver of the car, after a swift glance at the new-comer, would have driven off, but an unmistakable detective-officer had jumped on to the step by his side. "I am sorry," said T. B. Smith, for he it was who had detained the young doctor, "but I will explain. Don't bother about the taxi driver; my men will see after him. You have had a narrow escape of being kidnapped," he added. He drove the puzzled doctor to Scotland Yard, and piece by piece he extracted the story of one George Doughton who had died in his arms, of a certain box containing papers which the doctor had promised to deliver to Lady Constance, and of how that lady learnt the news of her sometime lover's death. "Thank you," said T. B. when the other had finished. "I think I understand." CHAPTER VIII It was the morning after the recovery of Farrington's body that T. B. Smith sat in his big study overlooking Brakely Square. He had finished his frugal breakfast, the tray had been taken away, and he was busy at his desk when his man-servant announced Lady Constance Dex. T. B. looked at the card with an expressionless face. "Show the lady up, George," he said, and rose to meet his visitor as she came sweeping through the doorway.