“No.”

Kerry bent yet lower, staring closely at a discolored abrasion on Sir Lucien’s forehead.  His glance wandered from thence to the carved ebony chair.  Still kneeling, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a powerful lens contained in a washleather bag.  He began to examine the back and sides of the chair.  Once he laid his finger lightly on a protruding point of the carving, and then scrutinised his finger through the glass.  He examined the dead man’s hands, his nails, his garments.  Then he crawled about, peering closely at the carpet.

He stood up suddenly.  “The doctor,” he snapped.

Inspector Whiteleaf retired, but returned immediately with the clean-shaven man to whom Monte Irvin had been talking when Kerry arrived.

“Good evening, doctor,” said Kerry.  “Do I know your name?  Start your notes, Coombes.”

“My name is Dr. Wilbur Weston, and I live in Albemarle Street.”

“Who called you?”

“Inspector Whiteleaf telephoned to me about half an hour ago.”

“You examined the dead man?”

“I did.”

“You avoided moving him?”

“It was unnecessary to move him.  He was dead, and the wound was in the left shoulder.  I pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt.  That was all.”

“How long dead?”

“I should say he had been dead not more than an hour when I saw him.”

“What had caused death?”

“The stab of some long, narrow-bladed weapon, such as a stiletto.”

“Why a stiletto?” Kerry’s fierce eyes challenged him.  “Did you ever see a wound made by a stiletto?”

“Several—­in Italy, and one at Saffron Hill.  They are characterised by very little external bleeding.”

“Right, doctor.  It had reached his heart?”

“Yes.  The blow was delivered from behind.”

“How do you know?”

“The direction of the wound is forward.  I have seen an almost identical wound in the case of an Italian woman stabbed by a jealous rival.”

“He would fall on his back.”

“Oh, no.  He would fall on his face, almost certainly.”

“But he lies on his back.”

“In my opinion he had been moved.”

“Right.  I know he had.  Good night, doctor.  See him out, Inspector.”

Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure, followed by Whiteleaf.

“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector.  “I will call when I want you.  You stay, Coombes.  Got it all down?”

Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and: 

“Yes,” he said, with hesitancy.  “That is, except the word after ‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like ‘steelhatto.’”

Kerry glared.

“Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested.  “The word was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o—­stiletto.”