drew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs,
sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand. He was middle-aged, with a
gray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes. Greeting the policemen
quietly, he turned to the broken body.

"Tchkk! good God!" He shook his head sadly. Redmond thought he had
never seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked. Presently he
straightened up and turned to Slavin. "Can you identify him, Sergeant?"

That worthy nodded. "Eyah! 'tis Larry Blake, I'm thinking Docthor. Best
frisk him now an' see, I guess. Maybe he has letthers."

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keen
scissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat. In the breast-pocket
of the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewarded
his search. He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up to
Slavin.

"Larry Blake it is," he said. He felt the soggy, pulped head. "Skull's
stove right in. Any one of these smashes would have sufficed to kill
him." He clipped the hair around a ghastly gaping crevice at the base of
the head.

Suddenly he peered closely, uttered an exclamation, peered again and drew
back. "Sergeant!" he said sharply, "D'ye see that?--No need to ask you
what that is!" In an unbroken portion of the back of the skull he
indicated a small, circular orifice. The trio craned forward and made
minute examination. Slavin ejaculated an oath and glanced up at
Yorke--almost remorsefully.