“Show him up,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, who spent the next few moments puzzling over the possible causes of this visitation. Had the author of _Passionate Desire_ overstepped the liberal bounds allowed her? He never read her books himself, but his manager had assured him that her latest was no more stimulating than usual. A knock on the door, and in stepped a large, dominating personality, hairy and red-faced. “Good morning, sir,” said he, “I’ve come about a Mr. Kato. I want to know if you can give me any information about him.” “I’ve just published his book this morning,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “but I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing personal about him. Why, has he got into some trouble?” “Well,” said the Inspector, “I think you can put it that way. He was found murdered in his bed this morning.” The publisher started to his feet. “Murdered! By whom?” “Well, sir, it’s a funny case, a very funny case, you might say. The instrument used was a book--his own book, I take it, and whoever did it was a strong man, for he’d brought it down on his face so that he’s--not a pretty sight, but that’s not the end of it. One of my men noticed a board in the floor was loose. It was pulled up, and underneath was a body, much decomposed, with its throat cut. He was a Jap, too. Looks like a feud of some kind. Kato killed this chap and another chap got him. I came to see you, sir, because nothing is known of this Kato, and except some letters from you we found nothing suggesting he had any friends or acquaintances in this country. The Embassy people know nothing about him.” “As I say,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “I knew him purely in a business way, but I do think there was some mystery about him, for I had come to the conclusion that he was not the author of the book which he pretended to have written.” “How’s that?” asked the Inspector. “It is a collection of extremely subtle and beautiful poems,” replied the publisher, “and from my experience of Kato I am convinced he could not have written them. He was always very nervous and uneasy, by the way.” “Don’t you be too sure he didn’t write ’em, sir,” said Mr. Walsh. “Besides your letters, the only papers we found in his rooms were poems, stacks of them. I’ve brought some of them along, and in view of what you say I’d like you to look through them and see if they shed any light on the business, and then I’m afraid I must ask you to come along and identify the body.” “Must I really do that?” said Mr. Cheltenham. “I’m afraid so, sir; you’re the only person who seems to know anything about him, and you’ll be wanted at the inquest.” “Very well,” replied the publisher, “I’ll ring you up when I have looked through these papers.” “Much obliged, sir,” said the Inspector, and left the room. The first thing Mr. Cheltenham did was to send for his manager. “Dixon, I have decided to withdraw _And he shall sing_.” “But, sir----”