Doctor Doremus looked us over satirically, then fixed his gaze on Sergeant Heath.

    "Well, well," he said, with a commiserating shake of the head. "So the corpse has returned. Suppose we have a look at it before it eludes you again."

    "It's down the East Road a bit." Vance rose from his chair and went toward the door. "We'd better drive."

    We went out of the house and, picking up Detective Burke, got into Vance's car. Doremus trailed us in his own car. We swung round to the south of the house and turned down the East Road. When we were opposite the pot-holes, where Snitkin was waiting, Vance drew up and we got out.

    Vance led the way to the cliff and pointed to the rock wall of the pot-hole in which Montague's body lay.

    "The chap's in there," he said to Doremus. "He hasn't been touched."

    Doremus made a grimace of annoyed boredom.

    "A ladder would have helped," he grumbled, as he climbed up to the low parapet and seated himself on its rounded top. After leaning over and inspecting the huddled body cursorily, he turned back to us with a wry face and mopped his brow.

    "He certainly looks dead. What killed him?"

    "That's what we're hoping you can tell us," answered Heath.

    Doremus slid down from the wall. "All right. Get him out of there and put him down on the ground."

    It was not an easy matter to move Montague's body from the pot-hole, as rigor mortis had set in, and it required several minutes for Heath and Snitkin and Burke to accomplish the task. Doremus knelt down and, after straightening out the dead man's distorted limbs, began to make an examination of the wound in his head and the gashes down the breast. After a while he looked up and, pushing his hat back, shook his head in obvious uncertainty.

    "This is a queer one," he announced. "The man's been struck on the head with a blunt instrument of some kind, which has ripped his scalp open and given him a linear fracture of the skull. It could easily have been the cause of death. But, on the other hand, he's been strangled—look at the ecchymosis on either side of the thyroid cartilage. Only, I'd swear those discolorations are not the marks of a human hand, or even of a rope or cord. And look at those bulging eyes, and the thick black lips and tongue."

    "Could he have been drowned?" asked Heath.

    "Drowned?" Doremus cocked a pitying eye at the Sergeant. "I've just finished telling you he was bashed over the head and also strangled. If he couldn't get air in his lungs, how could he get water in 'em?"

    "What the Sergeant means, doctor," put in Markham, "is whether it's possible that the man was drowned before he was mutilated."

    "No." Doremus was emphatic. "In that case he wouldn't show the same type of wound. There wouldn't have been the hemorrhage in the surrounding tissues; and the contusions on the throat would be superficial and circumscribed and not of such a deep color."

    "What about those marks on his chest?" asked Vance.

    The doctor pursed his lips and looked puzzled. Before replying he studied the three gashes again, and then rose to his feet.

    "They're nasty wounds," he said. "But the lacerations are not very serious. They laid open the pectoralis major and minor muscles without penetrating the chest walls. And they were made before he died: you can tell that by the condition of the blood on them."

    "He certainly had rough handling." Heath spoke like a man caught in a wave of wonder.

    "And that's not all," Doremus went on. "He has some broken bones. The left leg is bent on itself below the knee, showing a fracture of both the tibia and the fibula. The right humerus is broken, too. And from the depressed look of the right side of his chest, I'd say a couple of the lower ribs are smashed."

    "That might be the result of his having been thrown into the pot-hole," Vance suggested.

    "Possibly," agreed Doremus. "But there are also dull open abrasions—made after death—on the posterior surfaces of both heels, as if he'd been dragged over a rough surface."

    Vance took a long, deliberate inhalation on his cigarette.

    "That's most interestin'," he murmured, his eyes fixed meditatively ahead of him.

    Markham shot him a quick glance.

    "What do you mean by that?" he asked, almost angrily.

    "Nothing cryptic," Vance returned mildly. "But the doctor's comment opens up a new possibility, don't y' know."

    Heath was staring raptly at Montague's body, and I detected something of both awe and fright in his attitude.

    "What do you think made those scratches on his chest, doc?" he asked.

    "How should I know?" snapped Doremus. "Haven't I already told you I'm a doctor and not a detective? They might have been made by any kind of a sharp instrument."

    Vance turned with a smile.

    "It's very distressin', doctor, but I can explain the Sergeant's uneasiness. There's a theory hereabouts that this johnny was killed by a dragon that lives in the pool."

    "A dragon!" Doremus was bewildered for a moment; then he looked at Heath, and laughed derisively. "And I suppose the Sergeant is figuring out just how the naughty dragon scratched him with his claws—is that it?" He shook his head and chuckled. "Well, well! That's one way of solving a murder:—cherchez le dragon. Good Gad, what's the world coming to!"

    Heath was piqued.

    "If you'd been up against what I have the last coupla days, doc," he growled, "you'd believe anything, too."

    Doremus lifted his eyebrows ironically.

    "Have you thought of leprechawns?" he asked. "Maybe they did the fellow in. Or the satyrs may have butted him to death. Or the gnomes may have got him. Or perhaps the fairies tickled him to death with pussy-willows." He snorted. "A sweet-looking medical report it'd be if I put down death due to dragon scratches. . . ."

    "And yet, doctor," said Vance with unwonted seriousness, "a sort of dragon did kill the chap, don't y' know."

    Doremus raised his hands and let them fall in a hopeless gesture.

    "Have it your own way. But, as a poor benighted medico, my guess is this guy was first hit over the head and ripped open down the front; then he was strangled, dragged to this rock hole, and dumped into it. If the autopsy shows anything different, I'll let you know."

    He took out a pencil and a pad of blanks, and wrote for a moment. When he had finished he tore off the top sheet and handed it to Heath.

    "Here's your order for removal, Sergeant. But there's going to be no post mortem till tomorrow. It's too blooming hot. You can play Saint George and go dragon hunting till then."

    "That's precisely what we're going to do," Vance smiled.

    "Just as a matter of record—" began Heath; but the doctor interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

    "I know, I know!—'How long has he been dead?' . . . When I die and go to hell, along with the rest of the medical fraternity, that's the query that'll be eternally drummed into my ears. . . . All right, Sergeant: he's been dead over twelve hours and less than twenty-four. Satisfactory?"

    "We have reason to believe, doctor," said Markham, "that the man was killed around ten o'clock last night."

    Doremus looked at his watch.

    "That would make eighteen hours. Just about right, I'd say." He turned and walked toward his car. "And now I'm on my way—back to a mint julep and an easy chair. Gad, what a day! I'll be having a sunstroke and a brain-storm, like the rest of you, if I don't hurry back to town." He got into his car. "But I'm going home by way of Spuyten Duyvil and Payson Avenue. Taking no chances on going back past the pool." He leered at Heath. "I'm afraid of running into that dragon!" And, with a cheerful wave of the hand, he shot down the East Road.

    Heath ordered Snitkin and Burke to remain with Montague's body until it was called for, and the rest of us returned to the Stamm residence, where Heath telephoned to the Department of Public Welfare to send a wagon to the pot-holes.

    "And where are we now?" asked Markham hopelessly, when we were again seated in the drawing-room. "Every discovery seems to throw this case deeper into the realm of impenetrable mystery. There's apparently no line of investigation that leads anywhere except into a blank wall."

    "I wouldn't say that," Vance replied cheerfully. "Really, y' know, I thought things were shaping up rather well. Doremus gave us many revealin' items. The technique of the murder was unique,—the very brutality and insanity of it holds amazin' possibilities. Y' know, Markham, I've an idea we weren't expected to find the body. Otherwise, why should it have been so carefully hidden? The murderer wanted us to think Montague merely chose to disappear from his present haunts."

    Heath nodded ponderously.

    "I get what you mean, Mr. Vance. That note in Montague's clothes, for instance. My idea is that this dame who wrote the note had an accomplice in the car at the gate, who did the dirty work and threw the bird in that pot-hole. . . ."

    "That won't do, Sergeant," Vance interrupted in a kindly but firm voice. "Were that the case, we'd have found Montague's footprints leading out of the pool."

    "Well, why didn't we find them?" demanded Markham with exasperation. "Montague's body was found down the East Road. He must have got out of the pool some way."

    "Yes, yes; he got out some way." Vance frowned at his cigarette: something was troubling him deeply. "That's the devilish part of it. . . . Somehow I think, Markham, that Montague didn't leave any footprints because he wasn't able to. He may not have wanted to escape from the pool—he may have been carried out. . . ."

    "My God!" Markham rose nervously and took a deep breath. "You're not reverting to that hideous flying-dragon theory, are you?"

    "My dear fellow!" Vance spoke in soothing reprimand. "At least not the kind of dragon you imagine. I was merely intimatin' that the hapless Montague was killed in the pool and carried to the pothole."

    "But that theory," protested Markham, "only involves us in deeper complications."

    "I'm aware of that fact," sighed Vance. "But, after all, the chappie did travel, in some manner, from the pool to the pot-hole. And it's obvious he didn't go voluntarily."

    "What about the car that was heard on the East Road?" The practical Sergeant projected himself again into the discussion.

    "Quite." Vance nodded. "That car puzzles me no end. It may have been Montague's means of transportation. But, dash it all! how did he get from the pool to the car? And why was he mutilated in such shockin' fashion?"

    He smoked a while in silence, and then turned to Markham.

    "Y' know, there are several persons here who have not yet heard of the finding of Montague's body—Ruby Steele, and Mrs. McAdam, and Bernice Stamm. I think the time has come to inform them. Their reactions may be helpful. . . ."

    The three women were sent for, and when they had joined us Vance told them briefly of the circumstances surrounding the discovery and examination of the dead man. He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, but I noticed he was watching his listeners closely. (At the time I could not understand his reason for the procedure, but it was not long before I realized why he had chosen this means of apprising the various members of the household of our gruesome find in the pot-hole.)

    The three women listened intently; and there was a short silence following the conclusion of his information. Then Ruby Steele said, in a low, sententious voice:

    "It really bears out what I told you last night. The fact that there were no footprints leading from the pool means nothing. A man like this half-breed, Leland—with all his hidden powers—could accomplish seeming miracles. And he was the last person to return to the house here!"

    I expected Bernice Stamm to resent these remarks, but she merely smiled musingly and said with troubled dignity:

    "I'm not surprised that poor Monty has been found; but I doubt if miracles are needed to explain his death. . . ." Then the pupils of her eyes dilated, and her breast rose and fell with accelerated respiration. "But," she went on, "I don't understand the marks on Monty's chest."

    "Do you understand the other features of the case, Miss Stamm?" Vance asked quietly.

    "No—no!" Her voice became almost hysterical. "I don't understand any of it." Tears came into her eyes, and she was unable to continue.

    "Don't let it worry you," Vance consoled her. "You're frightfully wrought up, don't y' know."

    "May I go now?" she asked pleadingly.

    "Of course." Vance rose and escorted her to the door.

    When he returned to his chair Teeny McAdam spoke. She had been smoking with tense abstractedness for some time; I doubt if she had even heard any of Bernice Stamm's remarks. Suddenly she wheeled toward Vance, her features contracted and set.

    "Listen!" she began, with peremptory desperation. "I'm sick of this whole miserable affair. Monty's dead and you've found his body—and I've got something to tell you. Alex Greeff hated Monty. And he said to Monty Friday night—I heard him—'You're not going to marry Bernice if I can help it.' Monty laughed at him and retorted: 'What are you going to do about it?' Mr. Greeff said: 'Plenty—if the dragon doesn't get you first.' Then Monty called him a foul name and went up to bed. . . ."

    "What do you think Mr. Greeff was referring to when he mentioned the dragon?"

    "I don't know. But later that night it occurred to me he might have been referring to Mr. Leland."

    "Was it because of these remarks you screamed when Montague failed to come up after his dive?"

    "Yes! I'd been worrying all day yesterday. And when Mr. Greeff jumped into the pool and made a pretense of looking for Monty I kept my eyes on him. But he immediately swam out of sight toward the cliffs on the other side—"

    "And you kept your eyes strained in that direction?"

    Mrs. McAdam nodded jerkily.

    "I didn't know what he was up to—and I didn't trust him. . . . Later, when he came back he whispered to me: 'Montague's gone—and good riddance.' Even then I couldn't see how he'd accomplished the thing. But now that you've found Monty's body in the pot-hole, I had to tell you what I know."

    Vance nodded sympathetically.

    "But why were you upset when I told you of the splash in the pool late last night?"

    "I don't know—exactly." The woman spoke hurriedly and excitedly. "But I thought it might be part of the plot to kill Monty—or maybe Monty's body being thrown from the cliff—or some one in the water doing dreadful things to him. . . . Oh, I didn't know what it might be, but I was afraid . . . afraid—" Her voice died away, and she caught her breath.

    Vance rose and regarded her rather coldly.

    "Thank you for your information," he said, bowing. "I'm sorry, and all that, to have upset you. You and Miss Steele may return to the library now. There are a few other matters to be attended to. And if we need your assistance later I'm sure you'll both be good enough to give it."

    When they had gone a brief discussion followed as to the best means of proceeding with the case. The greatest difficulty lay in the fact that there seemed to be nothing tangible to take hold of. Montague's murdered body was a reality, of course, and there were various suspects—that is, persons with a motive for killing the man. But there were no connecting links, no indicated lines of investigation, and no clues pointing in any specific direction. The actual modus operandi of the murder was in itself an incalculable mystery. And over the whole situation hung the sinister mythology of a dragon.

    Routine police work was, however, in order; and the Sergeant, with his trained official mind, insisted on carrying this work through without further delay. Markham agreed with him; and Vance, who, for the solution of criminal problems, depended largely upon intuitive processes and psychological reasoning, finally acquiesced. The case had deeply impressed him: it held elements that profoundly appealed to his nature, and he was loath to spare even an hour for the Sergeant's routine activities. Moreover, he had, I knew, several definite, even if only vaguely formulated, ideas concerning the case.

    "A very simple key," he said, "is all that's needed to unlock the door of this fantastic mystery. But without that key we're helpless. . . . My word, what an amazin' situation! There are any number of people who admit that they are delighted with Montague's translation into the Beyond, and each one accuses one of the others of having manipulated his transit. But, on the other hand, the circumstances surrounding Montague's death seem to preclude the possibility of his having been killed at all. It was he who suggested the swim, and he dived into the pool in sight of every one. . . . And yet, Markham, I'm thoroughly convinced the whole affair was carefully planned—deliberately enciphered with commonplace numerals to make it appear fortuitous."

    Markham was weary and on edge.

    "Granted all that, how would you propose going about deciphering the riddle other than by the usual measures which the Sergeant intends to take?"

    "I have no suggestions at the moment." Vance was gazing meditatively into space. "I was hopin', however, to inspect Stamm's collection of tropical fish today."

    Markham snorted with exasperation.

    "The fish will keep till tomorrow. In the meantime, the Sergeant can clear up the routine matters."