Leroux drank the brandy at a gulp and put down the glass upon a little persian coffee table with a hand which he had somehow contrived to steady. “You are keen on the official forms, Exel?” he said, with a wry smile. “Please accept my apology for my recent--er--outburst, but picture this thing happening in your place!” “I cannot,” declared Exel, bluntly. “You lack imagination,” said Cumberly. “Take a whisky and soda, and help me to search the flat.” “Search the flat!” The physician raised a forefinger, forensically. “Since you, Exel, if not actually in the building, must certainly have been within sight of the street entrance at the moment of the crime, and since Leroux and I descended the stair and met you on the landing, it is reasonable to suppose that the assassin can only be in one place: HERE!” “HERE!” cried Exel and Leroux, together. “Did you see anyone leave the lower hall as you entered?” “No one; emphatically, there was no one there!” “Then I am right.” “Good God!” whispered Exel, glancing about him, with a new, and keen apprehensiveness. “Take your drink,” concluded Cumberly, “and join me in my search.” “Thanks,” replied Exel, nervously proffering a cigar-case; “but I won't drink.” “As you wish,” said the doctor, who thus, in his masterful way, acted the host; “and I won't smoke. But do you light up.” “Later,” muttered Exel; “later. Let us search, first.” Leroux stood up; Cumberly forced him back. “Stay where you are, Leroux; it is elementary strategy to operate from a fixed base. This study shall be the base. Ready, Exel?” Exel nodded, and the search commenced. Leroux sat rigidly upon the settee, his hands resting upon his knees, watching and listening. Save for the merry ticking of the table-clock, and the movements of the searchers from room to room, nothing disturbed the silence. From the table, and that which lay near to it, he kept his gaze obstinately averted. Five or six minutes passed in this fashion, Leroux expecting each to bring a sudden outcry. He was disappointed. The searchers returned, Exel noticeably holding himself aloof and Cumberly very stern. Exel, a cigar between his teeth, walked to the writing-table, carefully circling around the dreadful obstacle which lay in his path, to help himself to a match. As he stooped to do so, he perceived that in the closed right hand of the dead woman was a torn scrap of paper. “Leroux! Cumberly!” he exclaimed; “come here!” He pointed with the match as Cumberly hurriedly crossed to his side. Leroux, inert, remained where he sat, but watched with haggard eyes. Dr. Cumberly bent down and sought to detach the paper from the grip of the poor cold fingers, without tearing it. Finally he contrived to release the fragment, and, perceiving it to bear some written words, he spread it out beneath the lamp, on the table, and eagerly scanned it, lowering his massive gray head close to the writing. He inhaled, sibilantly.