The thing was outside his province, and he embarked on it because he was a photographer.
Freyberger arrived at Sackville Street about six, and found Dr Murrell at home. The doctor was in his study, going over his case book, and he bade his visitor be seated.
“You have called about the case I saw this morning, I suppose?” said Dr Murrell. “Well, I have done what I said I would do. I have already removed the right eye, stripped the retina, exposed it and got a result; the picture is at present the size of a sixpence; my man is at work on it now; it is being reproduced and magnified enormously, under the rays of a five thousand candle-power arc-light. If you will call again to-night I will show you the ultimate result, larger than a cabinet-sized photograph.”
“You have got a picture?” said Freyberger.
“I have got a picture,” replied the other, “or fancy so, and, as I say, you will be able to see it to-night.”
“What time shall I call?” asked the detective.
“Oh, about ten.”
“The body has been removed to the mortuary?”
“Yes, it was there I took the eye, substituting a glass one. The inquest will be to-morrow, and, of course, the post-mortem. I expect the post-mortem will show that the man had a weak heart.”
“You think he died of heart failure?”