The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle.  One or two odd matters met my eye.  On the table stood a box from a florist in Bond Street.  The lid had been removed and I saw that the box contained a number of white asters.  Beside the box lay a scarf-pin—­an emerald scarab.  And not far from the captain’s body lay what is known—­owing to the German city where it is made—­as a Homburg hat.

I recalled that it is most important at such times that nothing be disturbed, and I turned to old Walters.  His face was like this paper on which I write; his knees trembled beneath him.

“Walters,” said I, “we must leave things just as they are until the police arrive.  Come with me while I notify Scotland Yard.”

“Very good, sir,” said Walters.

We went down then to the telephone in the lower hall, and I called up the Yard.  I was told that an inspector would come at once and I went back to my room to wait for him.

You can well imagine the feelings that were mine as I waited.  Before this mystery should be solved, I foresaw that I might be involved to a degree that was unpleasant if not dangerous.  Walters would remember that I first came here as one acquainted with the captain.  He had noted, I felt sure, the lack of intimacy between the captain and myself, once the former arrived from India.  He would no doubt testify that I had been most anxious to obtain lodgings in the same house with Fraser-Freer.  Then there was the matter of my letter from Archie.  I must keep that secret, I felt sure.  Lastly, there was not a living soul to back me up in my story of the quarrel that preceded the captain’s death, of the man who escaped by way of the garden.

Alas, thought I, even the most stupid policeman can not fail to look upon me with the eye of suspicion!

In about twenty minutes three men arrived from Scotland Yard.  By that time I had worked myself up into a state of absurd nervousness.  I heard Walters let them in; heard them climb the stairs and walk about in the room overhead.  In a short time Walters knocked at my door and told me that Chief Inspector Bray desired to speak to me.  As I preceded the servant up the stairs I felt toward him as an accused murderer must feel toward the witness who has it in his power to swear his life away.

He was a big active man—­Bray; blond as are so many Englishmen.  His every move spoke efficiency.  Trying to act as unconcerned as an innocent man should—­but failing miserably, I fear—­I related to him my story of the voices, the struggle, and the heavy man who had got by me in the hall and later climbed our gate.  He listened without comment.  At the end he said: 

“You were acquainted with the captain?”

“Slightly,” I told him.  Archie’s letter kept popping into my mind, frightening me.  “I had just met him—­that is all; through a friend of his—­Archibald Enwright was the name.”