“And that is…?” Henry was all eagerness now. To tell the truth, this was more than he had dared to hope, even in his most optimistic moments.

“That is, my dear sir, that anything which you may learn in the course of this little agreement of ours shall be kept as the strictest of secrets; in other words, that no one—no one at all, mind you—shall hear anything which may be divulged to you here. This is all quite unofficial, of course, and I am only doing it because I think that there may just possibly be something in what you say, and you have already shown some evidence of wisdom in this business of criminology.”

“Inspector!” Henry’s voice was quivering, his pince-nez trembling perilously on his absurd nose.

“First,” said Shelley, affecting not to notice the little man’s emotion, “you will have what I imagine is a new experience for you, my dear sir.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Henry could not resist the direct question.

“You will have the opportunity of attending an exhumation.”

“Who is being exhumed?” exclaimed Henry in some surprise.

“Use your brains, my dear Mr. Fairhurst. Who do you think it could be?” Shelley could be almost rude when he desired, and his more brutal instincts occasionally seemed to come to the surface when dealing with the mild-mannered little Henry Fairhurst.

Henry thought deeply for a moment, his brow wrinkled in the effort of mental concentration. Then his face cleared up, and he looked at the detective and smiled gently.

“Of course, it is quite obvious,” he said.

“Quite,” said Shelley in return, still waiting for Henry’s decision.

“Professor Wilkinson, of course.”

“Of course.”

So soon they were bowling along in a huge police car, bound for the cemetery outside London where Professor Wilkinson had been buried some months earlier. In the car with them were Sergeant Cunningham and an official from the Home Office, the permission of the Home Secretary having been obtained, as is necessary for all exhumations, which are granted only if the most urgent need is proved by the police authorities.

At the cemetery a mournful little group greeted them. There were two burly men armed with spades, and one of the cemetery officials, who frowned disapprovingly on the whole proceeding, as if he thought it an unnecessary insult to the concern under his charge that this deed should be done.

It was a pitch-black night, and in the light of two swinging lanterns, borne aloft by the men with the spades, they made their somewhat gruesome way into the cemetery grounds. Henry shivered faintly as he glanced around him. The flickering lights cast ghostly shadows all about, and the headstones of the graves stretched away into the dismal distance like rows of grim and ghastly spectres.

“Here we are,” said the cemetery official in business-like tones. “I think that this is the place you want, gentlemen. Wilkinson is the name, isn’t it?”