Neville St. Clair

shall reward you with a clear and concise statement of my problem.

Mr. Neville St. Clair, age 37, the father of two children and an affectionate husband, is missing.

He left his house at the Cedars near Lee, our present destination, last Monday.

Four days ago, huh?

His pathetic appearance attracts great sympathy.

There's a shock of orange hair and a pale face that is disfigured by a horrible scar which has twisted the outer edge of his upper lip.

He was the last man to see Neville St. Clair alive, eh?

So it would seem.

We should be rich men if we had one thousand pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den.

It is the vilest murder trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it, never to leave it more.

But our trap should be here.

He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly, a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hooves.

Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.

Proceed, then.

Some years ago, to be definite, in May 1884, there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.

He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style.