I had just finished a batch of patients when the maid entered, telling me that a police-inspector in plain clothes wished to see me, and I, of course, gave orders for him to be admitted.
He was a dark-bearded, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey suit and a green Homburg hat, and on entering he told me that his name was Inspector Wills of the headquarters of the S Division of Metropolitan Pohce at Hampstead.
"I've called, doctor, to ask you to accompany us to a house in Avenue Road," he said. "Half an hour ago we received this by post at the station," and he handed me a single sheet of note-paper, upon which the following words were type-written:
"If the Superintendent of Police will have search made at Baronsviere House, Avenue Road, he will make a discovery. Circumstances have forced the writer to take his life, rather than face exposure and hear the punishment."
"Suicide, eh?" I remarked, handing back the letter to the inspector. "Very well, I'll come with you."
And I put on my hat and went forth into the road, where a constable in plain clothes—whose name I afterwards learnt was Saunders—stood awaiting us.
