ned? And if two, did they work as accomplices? Or is it
possible that Knoll's story was true? Did he really only rob the body,
not realising that it was a dead man and not merely an intoxicated
sleeper as he had supposed? These and many more thoughts rushed
tumultuously through Muller's brain until he sighed despairingly under
the pressure. Then he smiled in amusement at the wish that had crossed
his brain, the wish that this case might seem as simple to him as it
apparently did to the commissioner. It would certainly have saved him a
lot of work and trouble if he could believe the obvious as most people
did. What was this devil that rode him and spurred him on to delve
into the hidden facts concerning matters that seemed so simple on the
surface? The devil that spurred him on to understand that there always
was some hidden side to every case? Then the sigh and the smile passed,
and Muller raised his head in one of the rare moments of pride in his
own gifts that this shy unassuming little man ever allowed himself. This
was the work that he was intended by Providence to do or he wouldn't
have been fitted for it, and it was work for the common good, for the
public safety. Thinking back over the troubles of his early youth,
Muller's heart rejoiced and he was glad in his own genius. Then the
moment of unwonted elation passed and he bent his mind again to the
problem before him.

He sauntered slowly through the quiet street in the direction of the
four houses. To reach them he passed the fence that enclosed this end of
the Thorne property. Muller had already known, for the last twenty-four
hours at least, that the owner of the fine old estate was an artist by
the name of Herbert Thorne. His own landlady had informed him of
this. He himself was new to the neighbourhood, having moved out there
recently, and he had verified her statements by the city directory. As
he was now passing the Thorne property, in his slow, sauntering walk,
he had just come within a dozen paces of the little wooden gate in the
fence when this gate opened. Muller's naturally soft tread was made
still more noiseless by the fact that he wore wide soft shoes. Years
before he had acquired a bad case of chilblains, in fact had been in
imminent danger of having his feet frozen by standing for five hours
in the snow in front of a house, to intercept several aristocratic
gentlemen who sooner or later would be obliged to leave that house. The
police had long sus