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INSPECTOR FROST did not remain in Police Headquarters many minutes. On rejoining Hardy he suggested an adjournment to the nearest café.

"A man was found in Darlinghurst Road this morning, in an unconscious condition," he commenced by way of a preface.

"Nothing unusual for that particular part of Sydney," observed Hardy. "I understand police records state there are more sly-grog shops in Darlinghurst than in all the other districts of Sydney combined."

The Inspector took no notice of the newspaper man's remarks. From an inner pocket he produced a few papers and laid them on the marble-topped table.

"There are one or two things about this case that may interest you, Hardy," continued Frost. "There was little on the man. To be exact, four shillings in silver and three pennies. A two-bladed knife showing signs of hard usage. A cheap watch and silver chain, both well worn. Two pieces of string, one of them tied with several peculiar knots, and one letter."

"Where is the man?" asked Hardy.

"At the Sydney Hospital," replied the Inspector; "He has not recovered consciousness and the doctors do not seem to know what is the matter with him. At all events, they won't tell, if they do know."

"Anything strange about his clothing?" asked the journalist.

"A cheap blue suit, well worn, made by Dent and Sons, a soft hat, with the maker's name torn out. Striped shirt, low, turned down collar and black knotted tie. Brown shoes, well worn at the heels, and showing signs of having been half-soled several times, laces broken and joined, one mended with a piece of string. Undergarments cheap and almost in rags."

"Any body marks?"

"None whatever. A few moles and minor scars but nothing distinctive. I had finger prints taken and submitted to the office. Was just going to see if they had produced results when I met you. They know nothing of him, so he's never been through our hands."

"Then, he is nothing but one of the usual finds. Appears to me, Frost, you are trying to make a lot out of one of the common incidents of police work. Do you mean to tell me that this is the first man in a state of unconsciousness the police of Sydney have found?"

"There jumps the journalist to unconsidered conclusions," retorted the Inspector. "There is one uncommon matter and I have refrained from mentioning it so far. In fact, there are two uncommon features in the case."

"One at a time, please."

"First, the man was unconscious. That, itself is not unusual, but it is remarkable that the doctor at the hospital does not seem to be able to give an explanation for his condition."

"Go on."

"The second is this letter." The Inspector drew an envelope from his pocket, and, extracting a piece of paper, passed the envelope over to Hardy. It was a common, commercial envelope, with the address written in pencil thereon. It was addressed to "Mr. Carl Humberson, 133 Cascade Street. Darlinghurst."

"I presume you suggest that Mr. Carl Humberson does not live at that address," remarked Hardy.

"I had the pleasure of interviewing Mr. Carl Humberson," replied the detective. "He was good enough to prove, conclusively, that he had never received the letter. Certainly, his appearance is totally different from the man we found."

"What of the contents?" asked Hardy stretching his hand across the table. Frost gave him a half-sheet of note paper, badly torn, and containing the lower portion of a letter. It read:—

...that when you receive this, my patience is at an end. I have tried to do my best for you, but you are not only disobedient but have placed me in great danger by your reckless disregard of my instructions. You must be aware of the penalty you are incurring by this behaviour. I have warned you before and again tell you, that my patience is exhausted. In three days you will meet your punishment—the punishment I have meted out to others you know of.

—Dr. Night.

"Dr. Night" Hardy looked across at the Inspector, "I have never heard of this man. Have you looked him up, Frost?"

"There is no person of that name on the British Medical Association's register," stated the Inspector positively. "There is not a Dr. Night known to any religion, medical or scientific association or society in Australia, nor, so far as I can discover, in the world."

"That seems pretty conclusive," laughed the journalist. "The question seems to be: who, and what, is Dr. Night?"

"And, when we have answered that question I want to know what powers he possesses to punish his enemies to the very date, and apparently from a distance."

"What do you mean?"

The Inspector picked up the envelope and pointed to some faint pencil marks at one corner. They indicated a date three days previous.

"Dr. Night appears to be a very interesting gentleman," observed Hardy. "Anyone would be interesting who could produce a state of coma that is unrecognisable by the medical profession and also produce that coma from a distance; for I suppose we may presume that Mr. Carl Humberson had, after receiving that letter, conceived a strong distaste for the worthy doctor's company."

"That is your opinion, eh?" asked Frost.

"It is yours too," challenged Hardy. "Now, tell me what you want me to do. Publish this?"

He indicated the letter on the table. "It will make a fair story, but not so good as the one I took to Dixon this morning, and got wrecked."

Frost was inquisitive and Hardy recounted the Matthews story, very much as he had told to Superintendent Dixon.

"I wonder if there is any connection?" mused Frost.

"Improbable, I should think. The only connecting link I can find is that the two matters occurred within the danger zone."

Frost laughed at Hardy's remark. It was a time worn joke that Hardy attributed all the ills from which Sydney suffered to the Darlinghurst area.

"You may laugh as you will," retorted the journalist, carelessly. "One of these days you will find that only a spring cleaning in Darlinghurst will prevent a wave of crime sweeping Sydney, as it has lately swept Melbourne."

Hardy look a careful copy of the letter and envelope and went down to the Mirror Office. There he had a long interview with the day editor and then out to lunch. On returning to the newspaper offices he found a message waiting for him, to ring up Inspector Frost, at the Detective offices.

Obtaining the connection he had to wait some time as the detective was engaged with the Commissioner of Police. At last Frost rang up the newspaper.

"He's dead," announced Frost briefly, immediately he heard the journalist's voice.

"Have the doctors learned anything more?" asked Hardy.

"If they have, they're darned close about it," replied the Inspector. "Anyway you can write it down as 'murder.'"

"Murder?"

"Sure thing." Frost's voice sounded puzzled over the phone. "There's not a scratch or bruise on him, and so far as the doctors can tell there's no sign of poison. Yet, I'll stake my life that someone hangs for it."

When he had handed in his copy, Hardy walked up to Elizabeth Street and caught a Darlinghurst tram. A call at the Police Station resulted in the information that Mrs. Matthews was still disinclined to talk. The journalist then turned back towards the city and called on police headquarters. Superintendent Dixon and Inspector Frost were both out, and the office men had but a general knowledge of the two happenings.

The journalist then went to the city mortuary and was allowed to view the dead body.

For some time he examined the corpse, closely, but could find no clue of consequence. There was some trouble in obtaining permission to view the dead man's clothing, but, at length, they were produced. Inch by inch, the journalist went over the well-worn garments. The suit was badly crumpled and very dirty. The underclothing was soiled and ragged. The hat was broken and discoloured.