“I have had a great deal of very unpleasant correspondence with him—­Marchmont will tell you about that—­and yesterday I left a note for him, asking for an interview, to settle the business, naming eight o’clock this morning as the hour, because I had to leave town before noon.  He replied, in a very singular letter, that he would see me at that hour, and Mr. Marchmont very kindly consented to accompany me.  Accordingly, we went to his chambers together this morning, arriving punctually at eight o’clock.  We rang the bell several times, and knocked loudly at the door, but as there was no response, we went down and spoke to the hall-porter.  This man, it seems, had already noticed, from the courtyard, that the electric lights were full on in Mr. Hartridge’s sitting-room, as they had been all night, according to the statement of the night-porter; so now, suspecting that something was wrong, he came up with us, and rang the bell and battered at the door.  Then, as there was still no sign of life within, he inserted his duplicate key and tried to open the door—­unsuccessfully, however, as it proved to be bolted on the inside.  Thereupon the porter fetched a constable, and, after a consultation, we decided that we were justified in breaking open the door; the porter produced a crowbar, and by our unified efforts the door was eventually burst open.  We entered, and—­my God!  Dr. Thorndyke, what a terrible sight it was that met our eyes!  My brother-in-law was lying dead on the floor of the sitting-room.  He had been stabbed—­stabbed to death; and the dagger had not even been withdrawn.  It was still sticking out of his back.”

He mopped his face with his handkerchief, and was about to continue his account of the catastrophe when the carriage entered a quiet side-street between Westminster and Victoria, and drew up before a block of tall, new, red-brick buildings.  A flurried hall-porter ran out to open the door, and we alighted opposite the main entrance.

“My brother-in-law’s chambers are on the second-floor,” said Mr. Curtis.  “We can go up in the lift.”

The porter had hurried before us, and already stood with his hand upon the rope.  We entered the lift, and in a few seconds were discharged on to the second floor, the porter, with furtive curiosity, following us down the corridor.  At the end of the passage was a half-open door, considerably battered and bruised.  Above the door, painted in white lettering, was the inscription, “Mr. Hartridge”; and through the doorway protruded the rather foxy countenance of Inspector Badger.

“I am glad you have come, sir,” said he, as he recognized my colleague.  “Mr. Marchmont is sitting inside like a watch-dog, and he growls if any of us even walks across the room.”

The words formed a complaint, but there was a certain geniality in the speaker’s manner which made me suspect that Inspector Badger was already navigating his craft on a lee shore.

We entered a small lobby or hall, and from thence passed into the sitting-room, where we found Mr. Marchmont keeping his vigil, in company with a constable and a uniformed inspector.  The three rose softly as we entered, and greeted us in a whisper; and then, with one accord, we all looked towards the other end of the room, and so remained for a time without speaking.