The doctor, his straight brows drawn together, looked, again and again, from the ominous writing to the poor, lifeless thing on the rug.
"Then, indeed, his sins were great," he whispered.
Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.
"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My—my nerve's goin'."
Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised his hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words printed upon the bloodstained paper.
"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"—pouring out a draught into a little glass—"drink this. And favour me with two minutes' conversation before the police arrive."
Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, who stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.
"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come at once to Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by—Séverac Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an expert opinion. You must be here within ten minutes."
The arrival of a couple of constables frustrated whatever object Dr. Simons had had in detaining Mr. Rohscheimer, but the doctor lingered on, evidently awaiting whoever he had spoken to on the telephone. The police ascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the "Douglas Graham" business, that this business was of an usurious character, that the dead man's real name was Paul Gottschalk, and that he, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at about seven o'clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk as they saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables had been taken from the safe—which was open. The staff usually left at six.
This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearance and, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr. Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down the outside office.