The keeper permitted himself to laugh.

"If he was sane, what would he be doing in a lunatic asylum? They all _say_ they're sane, you know."

Poirot said no more. He took the man in to see the body. The identification came immediately.

"That's him--right enough," said the keeper callously; "funny sort of bloke, ain't he? Well, gentlemen, I had best go off now and make arrangements under the circumstances. We won't trouble you with the corpse much longer. If there's a hinquest, you will have to appear at it, I dare say. Good morning, sir."

With a rather uncouth bow he shambled out of the room.

A few minutes later Japp arrived. The Scotland Yard Inspector was jaunty and dapper as usual.

"Here I am Moosior Poirot. What can I do for you? Thought you were off to the coral strands of somewhere or other to-day?"

"My good Japp, I want to know if you have ever seen this man before."

He led Japp into the bedroom. The inspector stared down at the figure on the bed with a puzzled face.

"Let me see now--he seems sort of familiar--and I pride myself on my memory, too. Why, God bless my soul, it's Mayerling!"

"And who is--or was--Mayerling?"

"Secret Service chap--not one of our people. Went to Russia five years ago. Never heard of again. Always thought the Bolshies had done him in."

"It all fits in," said Poirot, when Japp had taken his leave, "except for the fact that he seems to have died a natural death."

He stood looking down on the motionless figure with a dissatisfied frown. A puff of wind set the window-curtains flying out, and he looked up sharply.

"I suppose you opened the windows when you laid him down on the bed, Hastings?"

"No, I didn't," I replied. "As far as I remember, they were shut."

Poirot lifted his head suddenly.

"Shut--and now they are open. What can that mean?"

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