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"Just lift his shoulders," the doctor directed.

Firth stooped and did so. The twisted head sagged in a fashion so gruesome that he quickly lowered the body again.

"You see? Fracture dislocation of the neck. Skull bent back so as to rupture the anterior ligament. The official hangman couldn't have made a neater job of it."

Dr. Fawcett stooped again, and carefully examined a slight abrasion on the firm, clean-shaven jaw. He manipulated the bones and made other examinations, then straightening up, he stared at that robed immobile figure before the purple curtain. On an Arab coffee table stood a crystal pitcher half full of water, a tumbler beside it.

"Did you try to revive him?" the doctor asked Lord Marcus.

"Yes." He inclined his head very slightly; "but the moment I endeavored to raise him, I realised, as you have realised, that his neck was broken."

"Was he a friend of yours?" The question came from Firth.

"I never saw him in my life before."

"Of course, doctor—" the Chief Inspector turned, the lids of his leonine eyes slightly contracted—"you know who this is?"