At the end of five minutes of argument there came the heavy thump-thump of men struggling above me.  It recalled my college days, when we used to hear the fellows in the room above us throwing each other about in an excess of youth and high spirits.  But this seemed more grim, more determined, and I did not like it.—­However, I reflected that it was none of my business.  I tried to think about my letter.

The struggle ended with a particularly heavy thud that shook our ancient house to its foundations.  I sat listening, somehow very much depressed.  There was no sound.  It was not entirely dark outside—­the long twilight—­and the frugal Walters had not lighted the hall lamps.  Somebody was coming down the stairs very quietly —­but their creaking betrayed him.  I waited for him to pass through the shaft of light that poured from the door open at my back.  At that moment Fate intervened in the shape of a breeze through my windows, the door banged shut, and a heavy man rushed by me in the darkness and ran down the stairs.  I knew he was heavy, because the passageway was narrow and he had to push me aside to get by.  I heard him swear beneath his breath.

Quickly I went to a hall window at the far end that looked out on the street.  But the front door did not open; no one came out.  I was puzzled for a second then I reentered my room and hurried to my balcony.  I could make out the dim figure of a man running through the garden at the rear—­that garden of which I have so often spoken.  He did not try to open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared from sight into the alley.

For a moment I considered.  These were odd actions, surely; but was it my place to interfere?  I remembered the cold stare in the eyes of Captain Fraser-Freer when I presented that letter.  I saw him standing motionless in his murky study, as amiable as a statue.  Would he welcome an intrusion from me now?

Finally I made up my mind to forget these things and went down to find Walters.  He and his wife were eating their dinner in the basement.  I told him what had happened.  He said he had let no visitor in to see the captain, and was inclined to view my misgivings with a cold British eye.  However, I persuaded him to go with me to the captain’s rooms.

The captain’s door was open.  Remembering that in England the way of the intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first.  He stepped into the room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.

“My God, sir!” said Walters, a servant even now.

And at last I write that sentence:  Captain Fraser-Freer of the Indian Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on his handsome English face!

The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning in this room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died.  He had been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of that odd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table.  I turned quickly to seek it, but it was gone.  And as I looked at the table it came to me that here in this dusty room there must be finger prints—­many finger prints.