"I thought I heard it. Excuse me, sir, it's my pen. I dropped it. Won't keep you waiting a minute."
He turned and ran swiftly back, returning some three minutes later, the pen in his hand, a smile on his face, and still further patches of white on his coat that would have suggested to even a less keen observer than Mr. Narkom that he had been very near to the ceiling.
"And now to see the body, Mr. Belthouse," he said, briskly, looking placidly at that gentleman's perturbed face as he opened the door of a little room wherein had been borne the body of the unfortunate policeman.
[CHAPTER XXVII]
THE RUSE OF THE SPRAINED WRIST
The body was that of a man in the very prime of life, and but for the strangely set and rigid face might have been thought that of one asleep.
Cleek examined it minutely, even pulling down the lips and raising the closed eyelids. For a moment he stood looking down at the still figure, then he shut up his magnifying glass with a snap.