“Right!” I said shortly.  “I’ll start immediately.”

And this sudden decision had been brought about by the mention of the victim’s name.  Indeed, as I replaced the receiver on the hook I observed that my hand was shaking and I have little doubt that I had grown pale.

In the first place, then, let me confess that my retirement to the odd little retreat which at this time was my home, and my absorption in the obscure studies to which I have referred were not so much due to any natural liking for the life of a recluse as to the shattering of certain matrimonial designs.  I had learned of the wreck of my hopes upon reading a press paragraph which announced the engagement of Isobel Merlin to Eric Coverly.  And it was as much to conceal my disappointment from the world as for any better reason that I had slunk into retirement; for if I am slow to come to a decision in such a matter, once come to, it is of no light moment.

Yet although I had breathed no word of my lost dreams to Isobel but had congratulated her with the rest, often and bitterly I had cursed myself for a sluggard.  Too late I had learned that she had but awaited a word from me; and I had gone off to Mesopotamia, leaving that word unspoken.  During my absence Coverly had won the prize which I had thrown away.  He was heir to the title, for his cousin, Sir Marcus, was unmarried.  Now here, a bolt from the blue, came the news of his cousin’s death!

It can well be imagined with what intense excitement I hurried to the docks.  All other plans abandoned, Coates, arrayed in his neat blue uniform, ran the Rover round from the garage, and ere long we were jolting along the hideously uneven Commercial Road, East, dodging traction-engines drawing strings of lorries, and continually meeting delay in the form of those breakdowns which are of hourly occurrence in this congested but rugged highway.

In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently represented.  Jones, of the Gleaner, was coming out as I went in, and: 

“Hello, Addison!” he cried, “this is quite in your line!  It’s as mad as ‘Alice in Wonderland.’”

I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were unclassifiable.  Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up, and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty before it.

“I call it damned impudence, Addison!” exclaimed one pressman.  “The dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard.  I should think he has stopped on the way to get his lunch.”

The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to the man on duty.