He went out, and the Canon returned to break the terrible news to his family. The superintendent drove a little way through the ancient city to a quiet, Georgian street, and stopped before a solid, square-looking house, which bore a brass plate on the door with the inscription, “Mr. F. Norwood, Solicitor.” A minute later he was in the presence of Mr. Norwood, who rose from his chair to greet him. Mr. Francis Norwood was one of the best-known professional men in Frattenbury and its neighbourhood. He had a large and select practice, an old-established one inherited from his father. He was an austere-looking man, with a hatchet-shaped face, large nose, thin, tightly-compressed lips, and old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers. His hair, which was inclined to be grey, was thin and carefully parted in the middle. He wore dark trousers, a black cutaway coat, and black tie with a small gold pin. He looked the very epitome of a dry, respectable lawyer, and eminently suitable for the environment of a cathedral city. He had never married—people said unkind things about him in this respect—that no woman would accept such a dry stick of a man—that he was too fond of himself and too close with his money to risk a partner. For many years he had held the office of coroner—as his father had done before him. Many people called him selfish in still holding it. There were younger and struggling men who would have been glad of the occasional fees, whereas Francis Norwood was reputed wealthy. But this criticism—even if he knew it—had no effect upon the staid lawyer. He stuck to his post and he stuck to the fees which it brought him. “Good morning, Superintendent; won’t you sit down?” said the lawyer, motioning the other to a chair, and reseating himself. “What is it?” “A case of murder, I’m afraid, Mr. Norwood.” “Murder? Dear, dear! That’s very serious. Tell me about it.” As the superintendent told his story, the coroner sat bolt upright, listening intently, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed together. “Yes,” he said, as the other finished, “a bad case—a very bad case. I’ll open the inquiry to-morrow. We shall have to adjourn it, of course. Let me see”—and he consulted a pocket diary. “Two o’clock to-morrow. Will that do?” “Quite well, Mr. Norwood. It will give us time to get the preliminary facts in order.” “Just so. As far as my recollection serves me, there is a public-house close to the quay?” “The ‘Mariner’s Arms,’” “Ah, just so. The inquest will take place there. You will summon a jury?” “Certainly.” The coroner folded his hands again. He was an extremely stiff individual. “This will mean a lot of work for you,” he said. “Have you any clue so far?” “There’s been no time yet, Mr. Norwood. I left the very best man we’ve got at Marsh Quay—Detective-Sergeant Colson, an extremely smart fellow.” “I see. Exactly. Do you intend to call in the services of Scotland Yard?” The superintendent smiled.