LITMIR.BIZ

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the drive concluded--and all too soon. In a silence which neither

      of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and

      followed an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.

      The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.

      "Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said; and his

      usually gruff voice had softened strangely.

      Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore

      under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room. No one

      spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering of

      the Thames outside--of the Thames which had so many strange secrets to

      tell, and now was burdened with another.

      The body lay prone upon the deal table--this latest of the river's

      dead--dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a

      seaman of nondescript nationality--such as is no stranger in Wapping

      and Shadwell. His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown

      forehead; his skin was stained, they told me. He wore a gold ring in

      one ear, and three fingers of the left hand were missing.

      "It was almost the same with Mason." The river police inspector was

      speaking. "A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own time on

      some funny business down St. George's way--and Thursday night the

      ten-o'clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole. His first

      two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left hand was

      mutilated frightfully."

      He paused and glanced at Smith.

      "That lascar, too," he continued, "that you came down to see, sir; you

      remember his hands?"

      Smith nodded.

      "He was not a lascar," he said shortly. "He was a dacoit."

      Silence fell again.

      I turned to the array of objects lying on the table--those which had

      been found in Cadby's clothing. None of them were noteworthy, except

      that which had been found thrust into the loose neck of his shirt.

      This last it was which had led the police to send for Nayland Smith,

      for it constituted the first clew which had come to light pointing to

      the authors of these mysterious tragedies.

      It was a Chinese pigtail. That alone was sufficiently remarkable; but

      it was rendered more so by the fact that the plaited queue was a false

      one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.

      "You're sure it wasn't part of a Chinese make-up?" questioned Weymouth,

      his eye on the strange relic. "Cadby was clever at disguise."

      Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and

      tried to fit it on the 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 the Brixton

      Police Station. There's no family, fortunately; he was quite alone in

      the world. His case-book isn't in the American desk, which you'll find

      in his sitting-room; it's in the cupboard in the corner--top shelf.

      Here are his keys, all intact. I think this is the cupboard key."

      Smith nodded.

      "Come on, Petrie," he said. "We haven't a second to waste."

      Our cab was waiting, and in a few seconds we were speeding along

      Wapping High Street. We had gone no more than a few hundred yards, I

      think, when Smith suddenly slapped his

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