d to the
scene of action and made known his identity, and by the time the local
police reached the theatre of events he was in full possession of the
case, and had already taken certain steps with regard to the matter.

It was he who first thought of looking to see if any name was attached,
as is often the case, to the "Engaged" label secured to the window of
the compartment occupied by the dead man. There was. Written in pencil
under the blue-printed "Engaged" were the three words, "For Lord
Stavornell."

"By George!" he exclaimed, as he read the name which was one that half
England had heard of at one time or another, and knew to belong to a man
whose wild, dissipated life and violent temper had passed into proverb.
"Come to the end at last, has he! Give me your lantern, porter, and open
the door. Let's have a look and see if there's any mistake or----" The
whistle of the arriving train for Victoria cut in upon his words, and,
putting the local police in charge he ran for the tunnel, made for the
up platform, and caught Cleek. He remained in conversation with him for
two or three minutes after the Victoria train had gone on its way, and
was still talking with him in undertones when, a brief time later, they
appeared from the tunnel and bore down on the spot where the local
police were on guard over the dark compartment.

"Mr. George Headland, one of my best men," he explained to the local
inspector, who had just arrived. "Let us have all the light you can,
please. Mr. Headland wishes to view the body. Crowd round, the rest of
you, and keep the passengers back. Pull down the blinds of the
compartment before you turn on your bull's-eyes. All right, porter. Tell
the engine driver he'll get his orders in a minute. Now then,
Cl--Headland, decide; it rests with you."

Cleek opened the door of the compartment, stepped in, gave one glance at
the dead man, and then spoke.

"Murder!" he said. "Look how the pistol lies in his hand. Wait a moment,
however, and let me make sure." Then he took the revolver from the
yielding fingers, smelt it, smiled, then "broke" it, and looked at the
cylinder. "Just as I supposed," he added, turning to Narkom. "One
chamber has been fouled by a shot and one cartridge has been exploded.
But not to-day, not even yesterday. That sour smell tells its own story,
Mr. Narkom. This revolver was discharged two or three days ago. The
assassin had everything prepared for this little event; but he was a