"Well, that's all I can do now," Dr. Warren said, after his very
perfunctory examination. "The rest will have to be at the morgue. Got
a place where I can wash my hands?" he asked.

Darcy indicated a little closet near his work bench. Dr. Warren soon
resumed his coat, accepted a cigarette from Daley, slipped into his
still damp rain-garment and was soon throbbing down the street in his
automobile, having announced that he was going to breakfast and would
perform the autopsy immediately afterward.

Soon a black wagon rattled up to the jewelry store, bringing fresh
acquisitions to the crowd, which persisted in staying in spite of the
rain, which had now changed from a drizzle to a more pronounced
downpour.

More reporters came, and Daley fraternized with them, the newspaper men
aside from the police and Jim Holiday, a detective from Prosecutor
Bardon's office, being the only people admitted to the shop, when the
clerks had been sent home.

The morgue keeper's men lifted the fast stiffening body and were about
to place it in the wicker carrier when Carroll, who was watching them
rather idly, uttered an exclamation.

"What's up?" asked Thong quickly. He had been strolling about the
shop, and had come to a stop near Darcy's work table--a sort of bench
against the wall, and behind one of the showcases. The bench was
fitted with a lathe, and on it were parts of watches, like the dead
specimens preserved in alcohol in a doctor's office. "What's up, Bill?"