“A lantern!” he called.  “I left one on the divan.”

But Monte Irvin had caught it up and was already at his elbow.  His hand was shaking so that the light danced wildly now upon the carpet, now upon the green walls.  This room also was deserted.  A black gap in the curtain showed where the material had been roughly torn.  Suddenly: 

“My God, look!” muttered the Inspector, who, with the others, now stood in the curious draped apartment.

A thin stream of blood was trickling out from beneath the torn hangings!

Monte Irvin staggered and fell back against the Inspector, clutching at him for support.  But Sergeant Burton, who carried the second lantern, crossed the room and wrenched the green draperies bodily from their fastenings.

They had masked a wooden partition or stout screen, having an aperture in the centre which could be closed by means of another of the sliding doors.  A space some five feet deep was thus walled off from this second room.  It contained a massive ebony chair.  Behind the chair, and dividing the second room into yet a third section, extended another wooden partition in one end of which was an ordinary office door; and immediately at the back of the chair appeared a little opening or window, some three feet up from the floor.  The sound of a groan, followed by that of a dull thud, came from the outer room.

“Hullo!” cried Inspector Whiteleaf.  “Mr. Irvin has fainted.  Lend a hand.”

“I am here,” replied the quiet voice of Seton Pasha.

“My God!” whispered Gray.  “Seton!  Seton!”

“Touch nothing,” cried the Inspector from outside, “until I come!”

And now the narrow apartment became filled with all the awe-stricken company, only excepting Monte Irvin, and Brisley, who was attending to the swooning man.

Flat upon the floor, between the door and the ebony chair, arms extended and eyes staring upward at the ceiling, lay Sir Lucien Pyne, his white shirt front redly dyed.  In the hush which had fallen, the footsteps of Inspector Whiteleaf sounded loudly as he opened the final door, and swept the interior of an inner room with the rays of the lantern.

The room was barely furnished as an office.  There was another half-glazed door opening on to a narrow corridor.  This door was locked.

“Pyne!” whispered Gray, pale now to the lips.  “Do you understand, Seton?  It’s Pyne!  Look!  He has been stabbed!”

Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained linen over the breast of Sir Lucien.

“Dead?” asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway.

“Yes.”

“You say, sir,” turning to Quentin Gray, “that this is Sir Lucien Pyne?”

“Yes.”

Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap.  The odor of Seton’s cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which the place was laden.