Round he came, and very helpful he was. He seemed to know all about the procedure--“Buried two wives, Dr. Munro, sir!” I signed the certificate myself, conveyed it to the registrar, got the order for burial, took it round to the parish clerk, arranged an hour, then off to the undertaker’s, and back to my practice. It was a kind of nightmare morning to look back upon, relieved only by the figure of my old Bohemian, with his pea jacket, his black thorn, his puffy, crinkly face, and his camelia. To make a long story short, then, the funeral came off as arranged, General Wainwright, Whitehall, and I being the sole mourners. The captain had never seen poor Fred in the flesh, but he “liked to be in at the finish, sir,” and so he gave me his company. It was at eight in the morning, and it was ten before we found ourselves at Oakley Villa. A burly man with bushy whiskers was waiting for us at the door. “Are you Dr. Munro, sir?” he asked. “I am.” “I am a detective from the local office. I was ordered to inquire into the death of the young man in your house lately.” Here was a thunderbolt! If looking upset is a sign of guilt, I must have stood confessed as a villain. It was so absolutely unexpected. I hope, however, that I had command of myself instantly. “Pray step in!” said I. Any information I can give you is entirely at your service. Have you any objection to my friend Captain Whitehall being present? “Not in the least.” So in we both went, taking this bird of ill-omen. He was, however, a man of tact and with a pleasant manner. “Of course, Dr. Munro,” said he, “you are much too well known in the town for any one to take this matter seriously. But the fact is that we had an anonymous letter this morning saying that the young man had died yesterday and was to be buried at an unusual hour to-day, and that the circumstances were suspicious.” “He died the day before yesterday. He was buried at eight to-day,” I explained; and then I told him the whole story from the beginning. He listened attentively and took a note or two. “Who signed the certificate?” he asked. “I did,” said I. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “There is really no one to check your statement then?” said he. “Oh yes, Dr. Porter saw him the night before he died. He knew all about the case.” The detective shut his note-book with a snap. “That is final, Dr. Munro,” said he. “Of course I must see Dr. Porter as a matter of form, but if his opinion agrees with yours I can only apologise to you for this intrusion.” “And there is one more thing, Mr. Detective, sir,” said Whitehall explosively. “I’m not a rich man, sir, only the ---- half-pay skipper of an armed transport; but by ----, sir, I’d give you this hat full of dollars to know the name of the ---- rascal who wrote that anonymous letter, sir. By ---- sir, you’d have a real case to look after then.” And he waved his black thorn ferociously.