IF Hellier could only have seen into the consciousness of our friend Freyberger, he would have admitted that the latter, although a professional detective, had an open mind, and was not entirely bound up in self-conceit.

Freyberger, as in duty bound, took a cab and made as fast as a London cab-horse could carry him, through London traffic, towards the Yard. At the Yard the Chief was just getting into his motor-car, when he saw Freyberger he beckoned to him.

“Come with me,” he said, “I am going on a case.”

Freyberger knew what that meant.

Some crime of extra magnitude had just taken place.

When the chief went in person like this, it meant big things.

He got into the tonneau without enthusiasm, for he had so much on his mind that he did not relish the prospect of an additional burden, and the car started.

It passed up Regent Street and then up Oxford Street in the direction of the Marble Arch, and straight on towards Notting Hill Gate. At Notting Hill Gate it turned down Silver Street, and turning the corner into High Street, Kensington, headed for Hammersmith.

It had not gone more than a couple of hundred yards in this direction when it slowed, and a mounted constable, who had been slowly patrolling the street, turned his horse, and putting it to the trot led the way, turning sharply to the right from the High Street up St James’s Road.

St James’s Road, not far from the grounds surrounding Holland House, has a touch of the provincial town suburb about it; every house has a garden in front of it, and every garden has one or more trees. It is a good middle-class neighbourhood; a few of the houses are let out in furnished apartments, though no bill or sign indicates the fact, but the majority of the inhabitants are of the professional or retired business class.

About the middle of the road, by the right-hand kerb, a crowd of people could be made out.

The car slowed down and stopped a few yards from the crowd, the chief and Freyberger alighted, and, led by a constable, passed through the throng up a garden path.

The hall door, at which they knocked, was opened by a constable.

“You have the body here?” asked the chief.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, saluting.

“Bring us to it.”

The constable opened a door on the right of the passage, disclosing a comfortably furnished sitting-room. A man was standing with his back to the mantelpiece. It did not require the tall hat, standing on the table with the stethoscope beside it, to indicate his profession. A middle-aged woman, evidently recovering from some great agitation, was standing by the table, and on the floor lay something covered with a sheet.

“Shut the door,” said the chief to the constable; then turning to the man:

“You are a doctor?”

“Yes,” replied the other. “I was summoned nearly an hour ago, and have waited at the request of the police till your arrival. Life was extinct when I came.”

“Thank you,” said the chief. “Sit down, Freyberger. A pen, ink and paper, please. Thanks.” Then to the constable, “Were you the officer called?”

“I was called at ten-fifteen, being on point duty, arrived to find deceased lying on the pavement in front of his house. He was black in the face; and, thinking it was a case of a fit, I unbuttoned his collar and attempted artificial respiration on the pavement, as he lay, but without success. This lady, here, was standing by the corpse; there was also a crowd of some ten or twelve people.

“This lady told me deceased lodged with her and that she believed he had been murdered.

“I had him conveyed into this room, sending messengers for a doctor, and to the High Street, Kensington, Police Station. I again attempted artificial respiration, and was so engaged when this gentleman arrived.”

“That all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks. Now, sir,” turning to the doctor, “may I ask you just to state the facts within your knowledge?”

“I was called at ten-thirty, about. I live in the High Street. My name’s Mason. I found deceased here upon the floor and the constable attempting artificial respiration. Life was extinct.”

“How long had the man been dead?”

“A very short time; possibly not more than half an hour, perhaps less.”

“Cause of death?”

“Strangulation. The man has been, in my opinion, garrotted, seized from behind by the throat and literally strangled. The thyroid cartilage has been broken, and there are the marks of fingers upon the skin of the neck.”

“No other marks or wounds?”

“I have found no other.”

“Thanks. Constable, remove the sheet.”

The officer stripped away the sheet, revealing a terrible spectacle. Upon the floor lay the body of a middle-aged man, judging from the scanty hair streaked with grey; the face was of a dull purple, the tongue and eyes were protruding.

The body was well dressed in a frock coat and grey pepper and salt coloured trousers.

“Had he been robbed?” asked the chief of the constable.

“No sir; the watch and chain, valuable ones evidently, were intact, also the money in his pockets.”

“Now,” said the chief, turning to the woman, “what do you know about it?”

She told her tale in a broken voice.

Deceased had lodged with her for some years. His name was Goldberg, a retired City man and well-to-do. Always of an evening he went out before retiring to rest, and took a short walk up and down the road, rarely being absent more than ten minutes.

This evening he had gone out as usual. She was in the front bedroom upstairs, closing the window and about to pull down the blind, when she heard a stifled cry from the street, and looking out saw two men struggling on the pavement just before the garden gate.

She could not tell in the least what the men were like, for the light was very indistinct.

She ran downstairs. Her husband was out, and she had no one in the house with her.

She put the hall door on the chain and, opening it as far as possible with the chain on, she pee............