the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the

clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots,

his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of

violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr.

Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other

exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little

promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very

highest at the moment of the tragedy.


“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in

the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as,

by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the

stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the

window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His

defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no

knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not

account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes.


“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives

upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human

being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his

hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City.

He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he

pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle

Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small

angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous

spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which