like a bugle. Dr. Simon went through to the armoury and routed
out Ivan, the public detective's private detective. Galloway went
to the drawing-room and told the terrible news tactfully enough,
so that by the time the company assembled there the ladies were
already startled and already soothed. Meanwhile the good priest
and the good atheist stood at the head and foot of the dead man
motionless in the moonlight, like symbolic statues of their two
philosophies of death.

Ivan, the confidential man with the scar and the moustaches,
came out of the house like a cannon ball, and came racing across
the lawn to Valentin like a dog to his master. His livid face was
quite lively with the glow of this domestic detective story, and
it was with almost unpleasant eagerness that he asked his master's
permission to examine the remains.

"Yes; look, if you like, Ivan," said Valentin, "but don't be
long. We must go in and thrash this out in the house."

Ivan lifted the head, and then almost let it drop.

"Why," he gasped, "it's--no, it isn't; it can't be. Do you
know this man, sir?"

"No," said Valentin indifferently; "we had better go inside."

Between them they carried the corpse to a sofa in the study,
and then all made their way to the drawing-room.

The detective sat down at a desk quietly, and even without