pier there. It is taken to the police station to
be examined, and is then found to have been
stabbed to the heart with a sharp instrument,
and by a strong and clever hand. The pockets
are empty, the studs have been taken from the
shirt, and there is no token, pocket-book, or
anything to establish its identity. 'Ordinary
case enough,'you'll say, with your experience;
' ordinary case enough — drunken man decoyed
into some water-side ken, robbed, and made away
with — case for the police—why Lord Wolstenholme
and the Home Office?' You would say
that, my dear sir, influenced by your ordinary
perspicacity; but I answer your 'Why.' From the
appearance of this man's body, it is plain that
he was not an Englishman; his clothes are not
of English cut, and he had on a baize fur-lined
overcoat, with a deep hood, such as no Englishman
ever wears. When this description was
sent to us, Lord Wolstenholme at once referred
to a private correspondence which we have
had with the French embassy in relation to some
of the Second of December exiles who are now
sheltered under the British flag, and we came
to the conclusion that this was no common
murder for purposes of plunder, but an act of
political vengeance. Now, my dear sir, you will
perceive that to penetrate a mystery of this kind
is of the greatest political importance, and
consequently his lordship took the matter up at
once, and set every engine we have at work to
elucidate it. The result of our inquiries proves
that the whole chance of identification rests
upon a question of coats. The last person by
whom, so far as we know, the wearer of the
fur-lined coat was seen alive is a waiter at a tavern
in the Strand, who distinctly recollects the
murdered man, whose dress he described very fully,
being particularly positive about his jewellery—
diamond studs, real, no 'duffers,' as he said, and
of which there is no trace to be found — having
dined at his eating-house, in company with
another man, who had with him a blue Witney
overcoat, on the inside of which was a label bearing
the name of some tailor, Ewart or Evans, he is
unable to state which, residing at Amherst."

"Good God!" said Mr. Carruthers, surprised
out of his usual reticence. "Evans — I know the
man well!"

"Very likely!" says Mr. Dalrymple,
composedly. "Evans! The waiter has been had
up, cross-questioned, turned inside out, but
still adheres to his story. Now, as we imagine
this to be a bit of political vengeance, and not
an ordinary crime, and as the detectives (capital
fellows in their way) have had their heads a little
turned since they've been made novel heroes of,
Lord Wolstenholme thought it better that I
should come down into the neighbourhood of
Amherst, and with your assistance try to find out
where and by whom this coat was bought."

No hesitation now on Mr. Carruthers's part;
he and the Home Office are colleagues in this
affair. Lord Wolstenholme has shown his sagacity
in picking out the active and intelligent
magistrate of the district, and he shall see that
his confidence is not misplaced. Will Mr.
Dalrymple breakfast? Mr. Dalrymple has
breakfasted; then a message is sent to Mrs. Carruthers
to say that Mr. Carruthers presumes he may say
that Mr. Dalrymple, a gentleman from London,
will join them at dinner? Mr. Dalrymple will be
delighted, so long as he catches the up-mail train
at Amherst — at what is it? — nine fifteen. Mr.
Carruthers pledges his word that Mr. Dalrymple
shall be in time, and orders the barouche round
at once. Will Mr. Dalrymple excuse Mr.
Carruthers for five minutes? Mr. Dalrymple will;
and Mr. Carruthers goes to his dressing-room,
while Mr. Dalrymple re-ensconces himself in the
big arm-chair, and devotes his period of solitude
to paring his nails and whistling softly the while.

The big, heavy, swinging barouche, only used
on solemn occasions, such as state visits, Sunday
church goings, and magisterial sittings,
drawn by the two big greys, and driven by Gibson,
coachman, in his silver wig, his stiff collar,
and his bright top-boots, and escorted by Thomas
footman, in all the bloom of blue and silver livery
and drab gaiters, comes round to the front door,
and the gentlemen take their places in it and are
driven off. The three gardeners mowing the
lawn perform Hindooish obeisances as the
carriage passes them; obeisances acknowledged by
Mr. Carruthers with a fore-finger lifted to the
brim of his hat, as modelled on a portrait of
the late Duke of Wellington. Bulger at the
lodge gates pulls his forelock, and receives the
same gracious return, Mr. Carruthers all the
time bristling with the sense of his own importance,
and inwardly wishing that he could tell
gardeners, lodge-keeper, and everyone they met
that his companion had come from the Home
Office, and that they were about together to
investigate a most important case of murder. Mr.
Dalrymple, on the contrary, seems to have
forgotten all about the actual business under
treatment, and might be a friend come on
a few days' visit. He admires the scenery, asks
about the shooting, gives his opinion on the
rising crops, talks of the politics rife in the
neighbourhood, showing, by the way, a keen
knowledge of their details, and never for an
instant refers to the object of their inquiry until
they are nearing the town, when he suggests that
they had better alight short of their destination,
and proceed on foot there. There is no particular
reason for this, as probably Mr. Dalrymple knows;
but he has never yet pursued an official and
mysterious investigation in a barouche, and it seems
to him an abnormal proceeding. So Mr.
Carruthers, deferring in a courtly manner to his
visitor's wishes, but, at the same time, walking
beside him as though he had him in charge,
they alight from the carriage, bidding the
servant to wait, and walk into the town, directing
their steps towards Evans, tailor.

Evans, tailor, coatless, as is his wont, and
with his thumbs stuck in the arm-holes of his
waistcoat, is standing at his door, and greets