Lewis went an angry red. “We’re not all of us used to finding bodies about the place,” he muttered.

“That’s all right, me lad,” said Tapper kindly. “Nobody’s going to blame you for being a bit upset at a nasty sight like that. It’s only natural.” He turned to Harper. “And how did you know this was Mr. Ballantine?” he demanded.

For reply, Harper took a newspaper from his pocket.

“Fairly obvious, wasn’t it?” he remarked.

A streamer headline across the front page shouted in large capitals: “RIDDLE OF MISSING FINANCIER: WHERE IS MR. BALLANTINE?” Beneath it was a photograph of a man in early middle age, with a prosperous, conceited, not unhandsome face, dressed in a morning coat, grey top-hat and stock, an orchid in his buttonhole. The caption ran: “Mr. Lionel Ballantine; a photo taken at this year’s Derby.”

The sergeant looked from the photograph to the distorted face of the murdered man, and back again. “That’s him all right, I can see that,” he said.

He pursed his lips and remained silent for a moment.

“What were you two doing here?” he asked.

“Checking the inventory for the leaseholder. Miss Penrose,” put in Lewis, who felt it was time to assert himself. “She had let this place furnished and——”

“She hadn’t let it to Mr. Ballantine, I suppose?” asked Tapper.

“Lord, no! The tenant was a Mr. James. Sergeant, do you think——?”

“I think you two had better get on with your job of checking the inventory,” said Tapper. “We shall know then if anything’s missing from the house, at all events, and by the time you’ve finished I expect there will be someone here from the Yard to hear what you’ve got to say. Be careful, now. Nothing’s to be touched; and if you find anything suspicious, call me at once.”

The young men left the room obviously relieved to be able to get away from it and the atmosphere of violence and horror that pervaded it. The sergeant, after posting the constable at the front door to warn off any intruders, pulled out his notebook and pencil and began to make laborious notes in his round, board-school handwriting. Presently he was interrupted by the arrival of an officer from the police station, who brought with him the divisional surgeon. The latter, a pale little man with a reddish moustache, took little time over his examination.

“Strangulation,” he said briefly.

“How long has he been dead?” asked Tapper.

“It’s difficult to say—two or three days, approximately.”

“Well, we shall have to wait for further orders before we move him. Then perhaps you’ll be able to tell us something further.”

“A message from the Yard has just come through,” put in the newly arrived constable. “Inspector Mallett is coming down immediately. Meanwhile nothing is to be touched.”