he'd have enough to do. That
there fog was so thick that--

The coroner said that would do, and after the people at the hotel had
been called to prove that no one had entered their place after eleven
o'clock that night, and that the bell had not been rung, the coroner
said that the case would have for the present to be left in the hands of
the police, who would, he hoped, elucidate what was at present one of
the mysteries of our great city. He did not think he was justified in
starting a theory of his own as to the causes of the dramatic scene that
must have taken place in Dr Chartley's surgery. They were met to
investigate the causes of the death of this man, who was at present
unknown. No doubt the police would be able to trace the three men who
left the surgery that night, and during the adjournment Dr Chartley
would probably recover; and so on, and so on; a long harangue in which
it seemed as if the fog, of which so much mention had been made, had got
into the evidence.

Finally the coroner said that he did not think he should be doing his
duty if he did not mark the feeling he had with respect to the conduct
of the police-constable John Whyley.

The gentleman in question glowed, for he felt that he had suddenly
become a prominent personage, with chevrons upon his arm to denote his
rise in rank. Then he froze, and his face assumed a terribly blank
expression, for the coroner went on to say that never in the whole
course of his experience, which now extended over a quarter of a
century, had he been cognisant of such utterly crass stupidity as that
of this policeman--a man who, in his opinion, ought to be dismissed from
the force.

John Whyley wished a wicked wish after the jury had been dismissed, and
orders given for the burial of the Mephistophelean-looking man, lying so
stiff and ghastly in the parish shell--and John Whyley's wish was that
it had been the coroner instead of Doctor Chartley who had got "that
one--two on the nob."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MR POYNTER POLISHES HIS HAT.

James Poynter rang four times at Dr Chartley's door-bell, and rapped as
many at the great grinning knocker tied in flannel, before he heard the
chain put up and the lock shot back, to display the smudgy unwholesome
countenance of Elizabeth Gundry, who always blinked like a night-bird
when forced to leave her dark kitchen.

"There, hang it, woman, open the door!" cried Poynter. "Do you take me
for a thief?"

"No, sir, I