“You’d better call an ambulance and have him taken to the morgue,” went on Goldberger.  “Somebody may identify him there.  There’ll be a crowd to-morrow, for, of course, the papers will be full of this affair—­”

“The Record, at least, will have a very full account,” Godfrey assured him.

“And I’ll call the inquest for the day after,” Goldberger continued.  “I’ll send my physician down to make a post-mortem right away.  If there’s any poison in this fellow’s stomach, we’ll find it.”

Godfrey did not speak; but I knew what was in his mind.  He was thinking that, if such poison existed, the vessel which had contained it had not yet been found.  The same thought, no doubt, occurred to Simmonds, for, after ordering the policeman in the hall to call the ambulance, he returned and began a careful search of the room, using his electric torch to illumine every shadowed corner.  Godfrey devoted himself to a similar search; but both were without result.  Then Godfrey made a minute inspection of the injured hand, while Goldberger looked on with ill-concealed impatience; and finally he moved toward the door.

“I think I’ll be going,” he said.  “But I’m interested in what your physician will find, Mr. Coroner.”

“He’ll find poison, all right,” asserted Goldberger, with decision.

“Perhaps he will,” admitted Godfrey.  “Strange things happen in this world.  Will you be at home to-night, Lester?”

“Yes, I expect to be,” I answered.

“You’re still at the Marathon?”

“Yes,” I said; “suite fourteen.”

“Perhaps I’ll drop around to see you,” he said, and a moment later we heard the door close behind him as Parks let him out.

“Godfrey’s a good man,” said Goldberger, “but he’s too romantic.  He looks for a mystery in every crime, whereas most crimes are merely plain, downright brutalities.  Take this case.  Here’s a man kills himself, and Godfrey wants us to believe that death resulted from a scratch on the hand.  Why, there’s no poison on earth would kill a man as quick as that—­for he must have dropped dead before he could get out of the room to summon help.  If it was prussic acid, he swallowed it.  Remember, he wasn’t in this room more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and he was quite dead when Mr. Vantine found him.  Men don’t die as easily as all that—­not from a scratch on the hand.  They don’t die easily at all.  It’s astonishing how much it takes to kill a man —­how the spirit, or whatever you choose to call it, clings to life.”

“How do you explain the address on the card, Mr. Goldberger?” I asked.

“My theory is that this fellow really had some business with Mr. Vantine; probably he wanted to borrow some money, or ask for help; and then, while he was waiting, he suddenly gave the thing up and killed himself.  The address has no bearing whatever, that I can see, on the question of suicide.  And I’ll say this, Mr. Lester, if this isn’t suicide, it’s the strangest case I ever had anything to do with.”