t, both
club and theatres would lie outside his world. He walked slowly,
yet he had scarcely taken, in fact, a dozen steps when, with a
purely mechanical impulse, he paused by a stone-flagged entry to
light a cigarette. It was a passage, almost a tunnel for a few
yards, leading to an open space, on one side of which was an old
churchyard--strange survival in such a part--and on the other
the offices of several firms of stockbrokers, a Russian banker,
an actuary. It was the barest of impulses which led him to glance
up the entry before he blew out the match. Then he gave a quick
start and became for a moment paralyzed. Within a few feet of him
something was lying on the ground--a dark mass, black and soft--the
body of a man, perhaps. Just above it, a pair of eyes gleamed
at him through the semi-darkness.

Laverick at first had no thought of tragedy. It might be a tramp
or a drunkard, perhaps,--a fight, or a man taken ill. Then
something sinister about the light of those burning eyes set his
heart beating faster. He struck another match with firm fingers,
and bent forward. What he saw upon the ground made him feel a
little sick. What he saw racing away down the passage prompted him
to swift pursuit. Down the arched court into the open space he ran,
himself an athlete, but mocked by the swiftness of the shadowlike
form which he pursued. At the end was another street--empty. He
looked up and down, seeking in vain for any signs of life. There
was nothing to tell him which way to turn. Opposite was a very
labyrinth of courts and turnings. There was not even the sound of
a footfall to guide him. Slowly he retraced his steps, lit another
match, and leaned over the prostrate figure. Then he knew that it
was a tragedy indeed upon which he had stumbled.

The man was dead, and he had met with his death by unusual means.
These were the first two things of which Laverick assured himself.
Without any doubt, a savage and a terrible crime had been committed.
A hornhandled knife of unusual length had been driven up to the hilt
through the heart of the murdered man. There had been other blows,
notably about the head. There was not much blood, but the position
of the knife alone told its ugly story. Laverick, though his nerves
were of the strongest, felt his head swim as he looked. He rose to
his feet and walked to the opening of the passage, gasping. The
street was no longer empty.

About thirty yards away, lo