divans of pale-blue velvetwith golden fringe. Comfort and luxury had been studied by whoever hadfurnished the place, for as we lit one of the side gas-brackets we sawthat it was really a very artistic room, the floor covered with a realTurkey carpet of softest hues, while the few paintings on the walls werechoice examples of well-known artists. At the end opposite the gratewas suspended from the ceiling by three gilt chains the mysteriouslittle red lamp, burning steadily without a flicker, and beneath it,fallen back in a large armchair, was a woman, whose face, although waxenwhite, was eminently beautiful. The paleness of death was upon her, yether handsome head with its wealth of gold brown hair was pillowed uponthe cushion of yellow silk, and upon the cold, slightly-parted lipsthere played a strange, bitter smile. She was young, twenty or so,dressed in an artistically-made gown of pale mauve, trimmed with lace.Her teeth were even and perfect; her cheeks round and well-moulded; herchin slightly protruding, and a piquant little nose; but that smile indeath seemed revolting in its hideousness. Her eyes large, of a deepblue, once luminous as stars no doubt, but now dull and filmy, were wideopen, as though gazing out upon us in an endeavour to speak and tell usthe truth of the strange and tragic occurrence. I looked upon herbewildered, dumbfounded.
Not three yards away, stretched at her feet, was a man of aboutthirty-five, well-dressed in frock coat and light-coloured trousers,with collar and cravat of the latest mode, and wearing on his cold,stiff hand a ring set with a single diamond of unusual lustre. His facewas towards the carpet, and while I held the lamp, Patterson bent andturned him over. We then saw that he was dark and good-looking, agentleman evidently, although from the upward curl of his moustache andhis smartness of attire he appeared to be something of a fop.
"It looks a good deal like murder and suicide," Patterson exclaimed,still bending over him. "I wonder who he is?"
"There's initials on his sleeve-links," I said, for I had detected anengraved cipher upon the plain gold buttons at his wrists.
"They're two `K's' intertwined, surmounted by a crest," my companionsaid in a strange voice. "I wonder what's on him?" and he proceeded tosearch the breast-pocket of the dead man's coat. The contents, which weafterwards examined together, consisted only of two prospectuses of newcompanies, an amber cigar-tube mounted in gold, and the envelope of aletter addressed in a woman's hand to "George Grove, Poste Restante,Charing Cross," and bearing the Manchester post-mark of three daysbefore. The letter had unfortunately been destroyed; only the enveloperemained. But we both recollected that persons who have lettersaddressed to the Poste Restante do not usually give their correct names.
In one of the vest pockets were three ten-pound notes folded carelesslytogether, while in the trousers pockets was a quantity of loose silver.Beyond that there was nothing else upon him. Contrary to the effect ofdeath upon his unfortunate companion, his face was slightly distorted,the tip of the tongue protruding, and both hands clenched, showing thathe had endured a momentary spasm of agony as the last spark of life diedout, while from the fact that a small tripod table with paintedplate-glass top had been overturned and broken it seemed apparent thathe had staggered and clutched wildly at the first object within hisreach.
But on neither could we detect any wound, nor was there anything to showthe cause of death. I examined the hand of the woman, a tiny, slim,cold hand, the contact of which thrilled me by its chilliness, and sawthat her rings, set with emeralds, rubies and diamonds, were of thefinest quality.
"She's beautiful," Patterson observed, gazing down upon her. "Perhapsshe was his wife."
"Perhaps," I said. "Curious that they should have both died together inthis manner."
"They were evidently sitting here chatting before dinner, when both wereeither murdered, or died suddenly before assistance could reach them.She died before he did."
"What makes you think that?" I asked quickly, my eyes wandering aroundthe large, comfortable room, the atmosphere of which was heavy withfragrant odours.
"Because he placed that cushion beneath her head," answered the shrewd,observant police-officer. "He had kissed her, and she was in the act ofsmiling at his last act of love when her heart suddenly failed, and souland body parted."
"And he died immediately afterwards, you think?"
"Yes, that's what I surmise. What's your opinion?"
"I can form no theory at present," I answered, bewildered. In thecourse of years spent in the investigation of crime for journalisticpurposes I had had my wits sharpened, and rather prided myself upon thesoundness of the theories I propounded in the articles I wrote.Patterson knew this, and probably for that reason had invoked mycompanionship in this curious affair.
Together we made a searching examination of the whole room, but therewas absolutely nothing to show the motive, or even the mode, of thetragedy. The absence of servants was of course extremely suspicious,but neither of us attached much importance to that. A close examinationof the scene was our present object, experience having taught that uponthe scene of most crimes there remains some trace of the assassin. Theold saying that "Murder will out" is truer than the majority of peoplebelieve, for even that night we had had a striking illustration inPatterson's attention being attracted by the snake in the gateway.
Beside the dead woman's chair was lying a handkerchief, a tiny square oflawn and lace, which I picked up. It emitted an odour very sweet andsubtle, such as I had never before smelt.
Patterson sniffed it, but placed it down.
"Some new scent," he said. "Women are always going in for the latestinventions in perfumes."
"But this is an extraordinary one," I said, again smelling it."Terribly strong, too," I added, for the odour had a strange,half-intoxicating effect upon me. The small red light steadily burning,the fragrance of the incense, the two dead forms lying there, still andcold, and the single gas-burner, hissing as it flared, combined topresent a weird, lurid picture, each detail of which has ever since beenindelibly photographed upon my memory.
The smile of death upon that woman's lips was horrible. That look ofhers has ever since haunted me, for now that I know the truth and haverealised all that had taken place in that room prior to the tragedy,that laugh of derision has a significance which renders its recollectionbitter, gruesome, hideous.
I know not what prompted me at that moment, but bending again beside theprostrate man I placed my hand inside his vest, recollecting thatsometimes tailors, adopting the French mode, made pockets there, andthat therein many men carried articles of value in secrecy and safety.
As I did so, I felt that there was a pocket in the lining, that it wasbuttoned, and that there was something within. Quickly I unbuttoned itand drew forth a small packet wrapped in glazed writing-paper, dirty andworn through being carried for a long time. With care I opened it, andinside found an object which caused us both to give vent to anejaculation of wonder.
It was simply a penny.
"His mascot, I suppose," remarked the inspector. "A lucky coin."
"But it has no hole through it," I observed.
"The hole is of no importance. The coin may have been given him forluck," replied my companion. "Lots of people believe in such things,especially betting men."
"He was evidently very careful of it," I said, at the same timesearching and finding another pocket on the other side of the vest, andfrom this I took a neat little cloth-covered case, not much larger thanthose containing cigarette tubes, and found on opening it that itcontained a small hypodermic syringe, complete with its needles andaccessories.
"This shows that he was addicted to the morphia habit," I remarked. "Anoverdose, perhaps."
My friend, who had now recovered something of his coolness andself-possession, took the tiny instrument and examined it carefullybeneath the gas-light.
"There's been no morphia in this lately," he said. "It's quite dry, andcertainly hasn't been used to-day."
"Let's search the whole house," I suggested. "We may find somethingwhich will give us a clue as to who
and what these people were. Funnythat the servants don't come back, isn't it?"
"I don't expect they will," answered Patterson.
"Depend upon it that there's more mystery in this affair than we atpresent suspect."
"Why?"
"Look at these," he said, passing over to me the three banknotes foundupon the dead man. "They are spurious!"
No second glance was needed to convince me that he spoke the truth.They were clever imitations of ten-pound notes, but the paper, thedespair of the forger, was thick and entirely different to that of thegenuine bank-note.
Again I glanced at that beautiful woman's face with its
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