"All over, sir?" Reggie nodded. "Some hog done him in?"
"As you say, Gorton. Running-down case. Big car. Took him in the back. Went over his head. But I don't see how he got into the gutter." He walked round the body, moved it a little, and picked up two matches—unusual matches in England—very thin vestas with dark blue heads. "Why did you think he was the Archduke, Gorton?"
"Such a big chap, sir. Not many his measure. And there's something about the make of the poor chap that's very like. But thank God's it's not the Archduke, anyway."
"Why?" said Reggie, who was without reverence for Archdukes. "Well, let's take him along."
They brought the dead man to the lodge at the main gates of Boldrewood, and there left him with a message to be telephoned to the police.
The hall at Boldrewood is in the Victorian baronial style, absurd but comfortable. Reggie was still blinking at the light when a woman ran at him. His first notion of the Archduchess Ianthe was vehemence. She came upon him, a great fur cloak falling away from her speed, panting, black eyes glowing, and then stopped short, and her pale face was distorted with passion. "Dr. Fortune! You are not Dr. Fortune!" she cried.
"Dr. Fortune, Junior, madame. My father is away, and I am in charge of his practice." She
