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"LORD MARCUS AMBERDALE"

As Bluett switched off the torch and turned, staring with innocent looking eyes at the Chief Inspector:

"Ring," said Firth.

Bluett pressed a silver button, and a dim note sounded from somewhere beyond the scarlet door, as a fourth occupant of the car, uttering a loud sigh, clambered out carrying a brown leather bag. This was a short, stout man, with a short, stout black moustache, and wearing a stout black hat. He lingered beside the car for a moment and stared up and down the street.

"The first time in my experience, inspector," he said, "that I have been called to such a scene and found not a soul about."

"Just what I was thinking, doctor," Bluett replied, glancing over his shoulder. "Queer, I call it."

"Ring again," said the Chief Inspector; and Bluett rang.

The three men stood in the silent street, while the uniformed driver leaned out watching. That murmurous background composed of themes mechanical and human, which is the symphony of London, and which until black-out was invented had never ceased, day or night, for several centuries, was hushed to a querulous whisper. This new stillness of metropolitan midnight had a capacity to awe.