"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and address on it, Mr. Breton. See?"
Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows.
"By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this man?"
Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece.
"Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said. "It's close by."
"Well—I—the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be called until after eleven. Will"
"Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You don't recognize this handwriting, I suppose?"
Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently.
"No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all—I can't think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at
