him sharply that her master was up-stairs, and
was not to be bothered by anybody.

"Come along with me, sir," said Sergeant
Cuff, coolly leading the way up-stairs, and
beckoning to the boy to follow him.

The barmaid called to her master, and warned
him that strangers were intruding themselves
into the house. On the first floor we were
encountered by the landlord, hurrying down,
in a highly irritated state, to see what was the
matter.

"Who the devil are you? and what do you
want here?" he asked.

"Keep your temper," said the Sergeant,
quietly. " I'll tell you who I am, to begin
with. I am Sergeant Cuff."

The illustrious name instantly produced its
effect. The angry landlord threw open the
door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant's
pardon.

"I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that's
the truth," he said. " Something unpleasant
has happened in the house this morning. A.
man in my way of business has a deal to upset
his temper, Sergeant Cuff."

"Not a doubt of it," said the Sergeant.
"I'll come at once, if you will allow me, to
what brings us here. This gentleman and I
want to trouble you with a few inquiries, on a
matter of some interest to both of us."

"Relating to what, sir?" asked the landlord.

"Relating to a dark man, dressed like a
sailor, who slept here last night."

"Good God! that's the man who is upsetting
the whole house at this moment!" exclaimed
the landlord. " Do you, or does this
gentleman, know anything about him?"

"We can't be certain till we see him,"
answered the Sergeant.

"See him?" echoed the landlord. " That's
the one thing that nobody has been able to do
since seven o'clock this morning. That was
the time when he left word, last night, that he
was to be called. He was called—and there
was no getting an answer from him, and no
opening his door to see what was the matter.
They tried again at eight, and they tried again at
nine. No use! There was the door still locked
and not a sound to be heard in the room!
I have been out this morning—and I only
got back a quarter of an hour ago. I have
hammered at the door myself—and all to no
purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a
carpenter. If you can wait a few minutes,
gentlemen, we will have the door opened, and see
what it means."

"Was the man drunk last night?" asked
Sergeant Cuff.

"Perfectly sober, sir—or I would never have
let him sleep in my house."

"Did he pay for his bed beforehand?"

"No."

"Could he leave the room in any way,
without going out by the door?"

"The room is a garret," said the landlord.
"But there's a trap-door in the ceiling, leading
out on to the roof—and a little lower down, the
street, there's an empty house under repair.
Do you think, Sergeant, the blackguard has
got off in that way, without paying?"

"A sailor," said Sergeant Cuff, " might have
done it—early in the morning, before the street
was astir. He would be used to climbing, and
his head wouldn't fail him on the roofs of the
houses."

As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was
announced. We all went up-stairs, at once, to
the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was
unusually grave, even for him. It also struck
me as odd that he told the boy (after having
previously encouraged him to follow us), to
wait in the room below till we came down
again.

The carpenter's hammer and chisel disposed
of the resistance of the door in a few minutes.
But some article of furniture had been placed
against it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at
the door, we thrust this obstacle aside, and so
got admission to the room. The landlord
entered first; the Sergeant second; and I third.
The other persons present followed us.

We all looked towards the bed, and all
started.

The man had not left the room. He lay,
dressed, on the bed—with a white pillow over
his face, which completely hid it from view.

"What does that mean?" said the landlord,
pointing to the pillow.

Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed,
without answering, and removed the pillow.

The man's swarthy face was placid and still;
his black hair and beard were slightly, very
slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide
open, glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The
filmy look and the fixed expression of them
horrified me. I turned away, and went to the
open window. The rest of them remained,
where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the bed.

"He's in a fit!" I heard the landlord say.

"He's dead," the Sergeant answered. " Send
for the nearest doctor, and send for the police."

The waiter was despatched on both errands.
Some strange fascination seemed to hold
Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity
seemed to keep the rest of them waiting, to see
what the Sergeant would do next.

I turned again to the window. The moment
afterwards, I felt a soft pull at my coat-tails,
and a small voice whispered, " Look here, sir!"

Gooseberry had followed us into the room.
His loose eyes rolled frightfully not in terror,
but in exultation. He had made a detective-
discovery on his own account. " Look here,
sir," he repeated—and led me to a table in a
corner of the room.

On the table stood a little wooden box, open,
and empty. On one side of the box lay some
jewellers' cotton. On the other side, was a
torn sheet of white paper, with a seal on it,
partly destroyed, and with an inscription in
writing, which was still perfectly legible. The
inscription was in these words.

"Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught,
and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus Luker, of Middlesex