any clue to the assassin," said the
coroner, when he had concluded writing down the depositions. "I presume
you are actively prosecuting inquiries?"

"Yes, sir," was the brief response.

"I think, gentlemen," the coroner said, turning at last to the jury,
"that we can go no further with this inquiry to-day. We must leave it for
the police to investigate, and if we adjourn, let us say for a fortnight,
we may then, I hope, have evidence of identification before us. The case
certainly presents a number of curious features, not the least being the
fact that the owner of the flat has mysteriously fled. When he is found
he will, no doubt, throw some light upon the puzzling affair. I have to
thank you for your attendance to-day, gentlemen," he added, addressing
the dozen respectable householders, "and ask you to be present again this
day fortnight--at noon."

There was evident dissatisfaction among the jury, as there is always when
a coroner's inquest is ever adjourned.

It is certainly the reverse of pleasant to be compelled to keep an
appointment which may mean considerable out-of-pocket expense and much
personal inconvenience.

One juror, indeed, raised an objection, as he had to go to do business in
Scotland. Whereupon the coroner, as he rose, expressed his regret but
declared himself unable to assist him. It was, he remarked, his duty as a
citizen to assist in this inquiry, and to arrive at a verdict.

After that the court rose, and every one broke up into small groups to
discuss the strange affair of which the Press were at present in
ignorance.

Edwards had crossed the room and was speaking to me. But I heard him not.
I was thinking of that triangular-bladed weapon--the "misericordia" of
the middle ages--so frequently used for stealthy knife-thrusts.

"Coming?" he asked at last. This aroused me to a sense of my
surroundings, and I followed him blindly out into the afternoon shopping
bustle of High Street, Kensington.

Outside the Underground Station were the flower-sellers. Some were
offering that tribute which the Riviera never fails to send to us
Londoners in spring--sprigs of mimosa: the yellow flower which would be
worn by the mysterious "E. P. K.," the written message to whom reposed in
my writing-table at home.

Personally, I am not a man of mystery, but just an ordinary London
business man, differing in no way to thousands of others who are at the
head of prosperous commercial concerns. London with a