dead detective.

"Too small by inches!" he jerked. "And look how it's padded in the
crown. This thing was made for a most abnormal head."

He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.

"Where did you find him--exactly?" he asked.

"Limehouse Reach--under Commercial Dock Pier--exactly an hour ago."

"And you last saw him at eight o'clock last night?"--to Weymouth.

"Eight to a quarter past."

"You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?"

"Roughly, twenty-four hours," I replied.

"Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he
followed up some clew which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff
Highway, and that he died the same night. You are sure that is where
he was going?"

"Yes," said Weymouth; "He was jealous of giving anything away, poor
chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off. But he
gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that
district. He left the Yard about eight, as I've said, to go to his
rooms, and dress for the job."

"Did he keep any record of his cases?"

"Of course! He was most particular. Cadby was a man with ambitions,
sir! You'll want to see his book. Wait while I get his address; it's
somewhere in Brixton."

He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man's
face.

Nayland Smith was palpably excited.

"He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie," he said. "There is
no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu! Poor
Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a
similar fate. Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in
the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that
Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!"

"What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?"

"God knows! Cadby's death was from drowning, you say?"

"There are no other marks of violence."

"But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor," interrupted Inspector
Ryman. "Why, he pulled off the quarter-mile championship at the
Crystal Palace last year! Cadby wasn't a man easy to drown. And as
for Mason, he was an R.N.R., and like a fish in the water!"

Smith shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Let us hope that one day we shall know how they died," he said simply.

Weymouth returned from the telephone.

"The address is No.--Cold Harbor Lane," he reported. "I shall not be
able to come along, but you can't miss it; it's close by