“Very little, if you will be so precise,” said Alan after a pause. “In a fourth-class Rotherhithe boarding-house frequented chiefly by seamen, a man called Baldwin Grison was found dead in his bedroom and on his bed, a few days ago. The Dagoes and Lascars and such British seamen as live under the same roof are not accused of committing the crime, and as Grison was desperately poor and degraded, there was no reason why he should be murdered, since he wasn’t worth powder and shot. Old Mother Slaig, who keeps the house, declared that Grison retired to his room at ten o’clock, and it was only next morning, when he did not come down, that she learned of his death.” Latimer nodded again. “All true and plainly stated. You certainly think in a methodical manner, Alan. The man was found lying on his bed in the usual shabby suit of clothes he wore. But his breast was bare, and he had been pierced to the heart by some fine instrument which cannot be found. Death must have been instantaneous according to the report of the doctor who was called in. But you are wrong in thinking that the crime was motiveless. I believe that robbery was the motive.” “The papers didn’t report any belief of the police that such was the case.” “The police don’t know everything—at least the inspector didn’t, although he knows a great deal more now,” said Latimer, removing his pipe, “but the single room occupied by the deceased was tumbled upside down, so it is evident that the assassin was looking for the fruits of his crime. Whether he found what he wanted is questionable.” “What was it?” asked Fuller, interested in the mystery. “I’ll tell you that later, although I really can’t say for certain if I am right. Let us proceed gradually and thresh out the matter thoroughly.” “Fire ahead. I am all attention.” “The police,” continued Dick meditatively, “hunted out evidence as to the identity and the status of the dead man, between the time of death and the holding of the inquest. Inspector Moon—he’s the Rotherhithe chap in charge of the case—advertised, or made inquiries, or got hold of the sister somehow. At all events she turned up yesterday and appeared at the inquest this very day.” “Who is the sister?” “An elderly shrimp of a woman with light hair and a shrill voice, and a pair of very hard blue eyes. She heard that her brother was murdered, or Moon hunted her up in some way, and willingly came forward with her story.” “What is her story?” “I’m just coming to it. What an impatient chap you are, Alan. Miss Grison—Louisa is her Christian name—keeps a shabby boarding-house in Bloomsbury, and is one of those people who have seen better days. It seems that her brother Baldwin was secretary to a person, whose name I shall tell you later, and was kicked out of his billet twenty years ago, because he couldn’t run straight.” “What had he done?”