The outer office was in darkness, as was that opening off it on the left; but out from the inner sanctum poured a flood of light.
Douglas Graham's private office was similar to the private offices of a million other business men, but on this occasion it differed in one dread particular.
Stretched upon the fur rug before the American desk lay a heavily built figure, face downward. It was that of a fashionably dressed man, one who had been portly, no longer young, but who had received a murderous thrust behind the left shoulder-blade, and whose life had ebbed in the grim red stream that stained the fur beneath him.
With a sharp glance about him, the doctor bent, turned the body and made a rapid examination. He stood up almost immediately, shrugging slightly.
Julius Rohscheimer wiped his forehead with the Cambridge silk.
"Poor Graham! How long?" he said huskily.
The doctor turned sharply from the body and looked as directed.
Stuck upright amid the litter of papers was a long, curved dagger, with a richly ornamented hilt. Several documents were impaled by its crimson point, and upon the topmost the following had roughly and shakily been printed:
Dr. Simons started perceptibly, and looked about the place with a sudden apprehension. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that his face grew pale.
In the eerie silence of the dead man's room they faced one another.
The doctor, his straight brows drawn together, looked, again and again, from the ominous writing to the poor, lifeless thing on the rug.
"Then, indeed, his sins were great," he whispered.
Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.
"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My--my nerve's goin'."
Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised his hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words printed upon the bloodstained paper.
"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"--pouring out a draught into a little glass--"drink this. And favour me with two minutes' conversation before the police arrive."
Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, who stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.
"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come _at once_ to Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by--Séverac Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an expert opinion. You _must_ be here within ten minutes."