“He doesn’t know of it yet,” replied the lawyer.  “Alfred and Raggerton went out after an early breakfast, to cycle over to Guildford on some business or other, and they have not returned yet.  The catastrophe was discovered soon after they left.  The maid went to his room with a cup of tea, and was astonished to find that his bed had not been slept in.  She ran down in alarm and reported to the butler, who went up at once and searched the room; but he could find no trace of the missing one, except my note, until it occurred to him to look in the cupboard.  As he opened the door he got rather a start from his own reflection in the mirror; and then he saw poor Fred hanging from one of the pegs near the end of the closet, close to the glass.  It’s a melancholy affair—­but here is the house, and here is the butler waiting for us.  Mr. Alfred is not back yet, then, Stevens?”

“No, sir.”  The white-faced, frightened-looking man had evidently been waiting at the gate from distaste of the house, and he now walked back with manifest relief at our arrival.  When we entered the house, he ushered us without remark up on to the first-floor, and, preceding us along a corridor, halted near the end.  “That’s the room, sir,” said he; and without another word he turned and went down the stairs.

We entered the room, and Mr. Brodribb followed on tiptoe, looking about him fearfully, and casting awe-struck glances at the shrouded form on the bed.  To the latter Thorndyke advanced, and gently drew back the sheet.

“You’d better not look, Brodribb,” said he, as he bent over the corpse.  He felt the limbs and examined the cord, which still remained round the neck, its raggedly-severed end testifying to the terror of the servants who had cut down the body.  Then he replaced the sheet and looked at his watch.  “It happened at about three o’clock in the morning,” said he.  “He must have struggled with the impulse for some time, poor fellow!  Now let us look at the cupboard.”

We went together to a door in the corner of the room, and, as we opened it, we were confronted by three figures, apparently looking in at us through an open door at the other end.

“It is really rather startling,” said the lawyer, in a subdued voice, looking almost apprehensively at the three figures that advanced to meet us.  “The poor lad ought never to have been here.”

It was certainly an eerie place, and I could not but feel, as we walked down the dark, narrow passage, with those other three dimly-seen figures silently coming towards us, and mimicking our every gesture, that it was no place for a nervous, superstitious man like poor Fred Calverley.  Close to the end of the long row of pegs was one from which hung an end of stout box-cord, and to this Mr. Brodribb pointed with an awe-struck gesture.  But Thorndyke gave it only a brief glance, and then walked up to the mirror, which he proceeded to examine minutely.  It was a very large glass, nearly seven feet high,