“That’s where it happened, I suppose?” said Anthony, nodding towards the dark patch upon the floor. “Yes.” “What was he shot with—a revolver?” “Yes, but we shan’t know what make until they get the bullet out at the autopsy.” “It wasn’t found, then?” “No, it wasn’t found.” “No clues of any kind?” “Well, we’ve got this.” Rather after the manner of a conjurer, Superintendent Battle produced a half-sheet of notepaper. And, as he did so, he again watched Anthony closely without seeming to do so. But Anthony recognized the design upon it without any sign of consternation. “Aha! Comrades of the Red Hand again. If they’re going to scatter this sort of thing about, they ought to have it lithographed. It must be a frightful nuisance doing every one separately. Where was this found?” “Underneath the body. You’ve seen it before, sir?” Anthony recounted to him in detail his short encounter with that public-spirited association. “The idea is, I suppose, that the Comrades did him in.” “Do you think it likely, sir?” “Well, it would be in keeping with their propaganda. But I’ve always found that those who talk most about blood have never actually seen it run. I shouldn’t have said the Comrades had the guts myself. And they’re such picturesque people too. I don’t see one of them disguising himself as a suitable guest for a country house. Still, one never knows.” “Quite right, Mr. Cade. One never knows.” Anthony looked suddenly amused. “I see the big idea now. Open window, trail of footprints, suspicious stranger at village inn. But I can assure you, my dear superintendent, that, whatever I am, I am not the local agent of the Red Hand.” Superintendent Battle smiled a little. Then he played his last card. “Would you have any objection to seeing the body?” he shot out suddenly. “None whatever,” rejoined Anthony. Battle took a key from his pocket, and preceding Anthony down the corridor, paused at a door and unlocked it. It was one of the smaller drawing-rooms. The body lay on a table covered with a sheet. Superintendent Battle waited until Anthony was beside him, and then whisked away the sheet suddenly. An eager light sprang into his eyes at the half-uttered exclamation and the start of surprise which the other gave. “So you _do_ recognize him, Mr. Cade,” he said, in a voice that he strove to render devoid of triumph. “I’ve seen him before, yes,” said Anthony, recovering himself. “But not as Prince Michael Obolovitch. He purported to come from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins, and he called himself Mr. Holmes.” 13 The American Visitor Superintendent Battle replaced the sheet with the slightly crest-fallen air of a man whose best point has fallen flat. Anthony stood with his hands in his pockets lost in thought. “So that’s what old Lollipop meant when he talked about ‘other means,’” he murmured at last. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cade?”