Once the affair had been reported to the local police, news of the tragedy spread over the neighbourhood with amazing velocity, and by nine o’clock next morning there wasn’t a soul within a radius of five miles who had not heard of it; by ten the Common and the immediate vicinity of Gleer Cottage were literally black with morbid-minded sightseers and reporters.

As yet, however, none but the police and the representatives of the press had been permitted to cross the threshold of the house or to obtain even the merest glimpse of the murdered man. For all that, certain facts relative to the position in which the body had been found, together with the mysterious marks upon his shirt bosom, had leaked out, and as Scotland Yard, as represented by Cleek and Superintendent Narkom, had chosen to remain silent for the present relative to such clues as had been discovered, this gave room for some fine flights of fancy on the part of the representatives of the press.

The special correspondent of the Evening Planet “discovered” that the Count was “a well-known Austrian nobleman” who had offended the famous Ravaschol group, and was the author of the equally famous “Ninth Clause” which had acted so disastrously against it a circumstance which, the Planet claimed, left no shadow of a doubt regarding “the true meaning of the mysterious markings upon the shirt bosom of the unfortunate gentleman.” Whereupon the representative of its bitterest rival, the Morning Star, as promptly discovered that he was nothing of the sort; that he had been “positively identified” as the former keeper of a sort of club in Soho much frequented by Russian, German, French, and Italian anarchists; and that, on its being discovered by those gentry that he had sold to the police of their several countries secrets thus learned, he had been obliged to disappear from his regular haunts in order to save his skin. And, furthermore, as the address of the house in which that club had been maintained, and from which he had carried on his system of betrayal, was 63 Essex Row, the explanation of the markings was quite clear to wit: “Four and two make six; one and two make three; furthermore, the peculiar formation of the repeated figure 2 is, of course, a rude attempt to make it serve for the letter S. as well; which, taken in conjunction with the three X’s, leaves no room for doubt that these markings stand for Number Sixty-three Essex Row and for nothing else.”

Now as it happened that 63 Essex Row had, at one time in its career, been the seat of just such a club and just such a proceeding as the Morning Star stated, nothing was left the Evening Planet but sneeringly to point out that “the imaginative genius of our esteemed contemporary should not let it fail to remember that the man Lovetski to whom it doubtless refers, and whose mysterious vanishment some years ago has never been cleared up had his supporters as well as his accusers. It was clearly shown at the time that although he dwelt in the house where the ‘club’ in question held forth, there never was any absolute proof that he was himself in any way actually connected with it, his vocation being that of a maker of dressing for boots, shoes, ladies’ bags, and leather goods generally, which dressing he manufactured upon the premises.”

This statement, being correct, gave the Morning Star a chance to clinch its argument yet more forcibly and to prove itself better informed than its rival by coming out in its next issue with the declaration that “there can no longer be any question relative to the identity of the murdered man. That he is, or rather was, the long-vanished Ferdinand Lovetski who was formerly identified with the club and the boot-dressing industry carried on at 63 Essex Row, is established beyond all cavil, since the marks smeared upon his shirt bosom are now known to have been made with shoe-blacking of that variety which is applied and polished with a cloth, and which has of recent years almost entirely superseded the brush-applied variety of our fathers’ and grandfathers’ days!”

Narkom, much impressed thereby, showed these two articles from the Morning Star to Cleek.

“An ingenious young man that reporter, Mr. Narkom, and his deductions regarding those marks reflect great credit upon him,” said the latter. “For it is positively certain that whoever he may or may not have been, the man certainly was not the Count de Louvisan, for the simple reason that there is no ‘Count de Louvisan’ in the Austrian nobility, the title having lapsed some years ago. The theory that the dead man is that Ferdinand Lovetski who formerly lived at 63 Essex Row, however, will bear looking into. It is well thought out. I should, perhaps, be more impressed with the genius of the chap who worked out so likely a solution to those mysterious figures if he hadn’t made me lose faith in his powers of observation by the ‘shoe blacking’ statement. It is not a bad guess, in the circumstances for each would leave marks very similar, if one trusted to the eye alone but I happen to know that the figures were not smeared on with shoe-blacking, but with a stick of that greasy, highly scented black cosmetic which some actresses use for their eyelashes and some men employ to disguise the gray hairs in the moustache. You know the kind of stuff I mean. It is always wrapped in a brilliant, ruby-coloured tin foil; is to be found in most barbers’ and hairdressers’ establishments, and is very heavily and peculiarly perfumed. You will remember that, when I wanted to ascertain if the odour of the Huile Violette emanated from the body of the dead man or not, I told you he was scented, but not with violets? Very well, the scent which was upon him was the peculiar spicy fragrance of that particular kind of cosmetic; and I had only to get one whiff of his shirt bosom to understand what had been used to make those marks upon it.”

“My dear Cleek, could you be sure of that?” ventured Narkom. “I know the kind of stuff you mean. But few Englishmen use it these days, though I remember it was once very popular. It comes in light brown shades for fair people, as well as in black for dark ones; and the Count was extremely fair, almost flaxen. Could you be positive then that what you smelt was not on his hair or moustache? If he had used the light sort it would not show, remember.”

“My dear Mr. Narkom, have you so poor an opinion of my methods that you fancy I would be likely to be slipshod in my examination, and to pass over so important a possibility as that? The man had brilliantine on his hair and moustache, and the latter had been dressed with curling irons! Believe me, when we find who put those marks upon him, we shall find some one who is addicted to the use of black cosmetic of the kind which I have mentioned.”

And afterward, when the rush of events had crowded yet more important ones from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered those words and set that statement down in his diary as another proof of the amazing thoroughness and the shrewd far-sightedness of this remarkable man.