“I have told you already he died of terror; but I think the heart weakness was the secondary cause of his death. I see in the papers that a warrant is out for Sir Anthony Gyde. Have you caught him yet?”
“No,” said Freyberger, “and we never will.”
The other looked surprised.
“I have only skimmed through the report in the paper,” he said. “From it I gather that it is very clearly proved that he has murdered a man up in Cumberland.”
“You have not seen the head, then, that was found in his house in Piccadilly?”
“No, I was from home when they sent for me, and they called the Home Office expert in.”
Freyberger gave him all the details we know, and the doctor sat listening and tapping with his pencil on the desk.
“Well,” he said, when the other had finished, “you seem to have a pretty tangled skein to unravel; what I can show you to-night may help you or not. Call at ten; and now I must take leave of you, for I have another patient to see before dinner.”
Freyberger bowed himself out. He had almost four hours to wait before the appointment, and, having nothing particular to do, he determined to make the best use he could of the time at his disposal, and have dinner.
He first telephoned to the Yard the result of his interview with Dr Murrell, and then betook himself to a cheap restaurant in Soho, where he proceeded to revel in Sauerkraut and beef, served with stewed plums, slices of sausage and other Teutonic delicacies.