He spun round, gripped the silken tassel of the cord above the fire-place, and pulled down, not a map, but a picture. It had been painted from a photograph by an artist who specialized in the gaudy banners which hang before every booth at every country fair. In this setting the daub was a shrieking incongruity; yet to Dr. Oberzohn it surpassed in beauty the masterpieces of the Prado. A full-length portrait of a man in a frock-coat. He leaned on a pedestal in the attitude which cheap photographers believe is the acme of grace. His big face, idealized as it was by the artist, was brutal and stupid. The carmine lips were parted in a simper. In one hand he held a scroll of paper, in the other a Derby hat which was considerably out of drawing. “My brother!” Dr. Oberzohn choked. “My sainted Adolph . . . murdered! By the so-called Three Just Men . . . my brother!” “Very interesting,” murmured Captain Newton, who had not even troubled to look up. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the fire-place and said no more. Adolph Oberzohn had certainly been shot dead by Leon Gonsalez: there was no disputing the fact. That Adolph, at the moment of his death, was attempting to earn the generous profits which come to those who engage in a certain obnoxious trade between Europe and the South American states, was less open to question. There was a girl in it: Leon followed his man to Porto Rico, and in the Café of the Seven Virtues they had met. Adolph was by training a gunman and drew first—and died first. That was the story of Adolph Oberzohn: the story of a girl whom Leon Gonsalez smuggled back to Europe belongs elsewhere. She fell in love with her rescuer and frightened him sick. Dr. Oberzohn let the portrait roll up with a snap, blew his nose vigorously, and blinked the tears from his pale eyes. “Yes, very sad, very sad,” said the captain cheerfully. “Now what about this girl? There is to be nothing rough or raw, you understand, Eruc? I want the thing done sweetly. Get that bug of the Just Men out of your mind—they are out of business. When a man lowers himself to run a detective agency he’s a back number. If they start anything we’ll deal with them scientifically, eh? Scientifically!” He chuckled with laughter at this good joke. It was obvious that Captain Newton was no dependant on the firm of Oberzohn & Smitts. If he was not the dominant partner, he dominated that branch which he had once served in a minor capacity. He owed much to the death of Adolph—he never regretted the passing of that unsavoury man. “I’ll get one of the girls to look her over this afternoon—where is your telephone pad—the one you write messages received?” The doctor opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little memo pad, and Newton found a pencil and wrote: “To Mirabelle Leicester, care Oberzohn (Phone) London. Sorry I can’t come up to-night. Don’t sleep at flat alone. Have wired Joan Newton to put you up for night. She will call.—ALMA.”