Dr Quantry beckoned to the ambulance crew.
"Remove," he ordered briskly. "Morgue."
Kinglake made his own inspection of the crown of the road where Simon showed him he had first seen the body.
"He didn't do all that burning here — the surface is hardly scorched," he concluded, and turned to wait for the approach of his assistant.
Detective Yard carried some souvenirs carefully in his handkerchief. They consisted of a partly burned crumple of newspaper, and an ordinary match folder bearing the name of the 606 Club in Chicago. Kinglake looked at the exhibits without touching them.
"Galveston paper," he said; and then: "When were you last in Chicago, Templar?"
"A few days ago."
"Ever been to the 606 Club?"
"As a matter of fact, I have," said the Saint coolly. "I'm making a survey of the United States on the subject of stage and floor-show nudity in the principal cities in relation to the per capita circulation of the Atlantic Monthly. It's a fascinating study."
Lieutenant Kinglake was unruffled.