“Yes,” I agreed, “if it isn’t suicide, we come to a blank wall right away.”

“That’s it,” and Goldberger nodded emphatically.  “Here’s the ambulance,” he added, as the bell rang.

The bearers entered with the stretcher, placed the body on it, and carried it away.  Goldberger paused to gather up the articles he had taken from the dead man’s pockets.

“You gentlemen will have to give your testimony at the inquest,” he said.  “So will Parks and Rogers.  It will be day after to-morrow, probably at ten o’clock, but I’ll notify you of the hour.”

“Very well,” I said; “we’ll be there,” and Goldberger bade us good-bye, and left the house.  “And now,” I added, to Vantine, “I must be getting back to the office.  They’ll be asking the police to look for me next.  Man alive!” and I glanced at my watch, “it’s after four o’clock.”

“Too late for the office,” said Vantine.  “Better come upstairs and have a drink.  Besides, I want to talk with you.”

“At least, I’ll let them know I’m still alive,” I said, and I called up the office and allayed any anxiety that may have been felt there concerning me.  I must admit that it did not seem acute.

“I feel the need of a bracer after all this excitement,” Vantine remarked, as he opened the cellarette.  “Help yourself.  I dare say you’re used to this sort of thing—­”

“Finding dead men lying around?” I queried, with a smile.  “No—­it’s not so common as you seem to think.”

“Tell me, Lester,” and he looked at me earnestly, “do you think that poor devil came in here just to get a chance to kill himself quietly?”

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“Then what did he come in for?”

“I think Goldberger’s theory a pretty good one—­that he had heard of you as a generous fellow and came in here to ask help; and while he was waiting, suddenly gave it up—­”

“And killed himself?” Vantine completed.

I hesitated.  I was astonished to find, at the back of my mind, a growing doubt.

“See here, Lester,” Vantine demanded, “if he didn’t kill himself, what happened to him?”

“Heaven only knows,” I answered, in despair.  “I’ve been asking myself the same question, without finding a reasonable answer to it.  As I said to Goldberger, it’s a blank wall.  But if anybody can see through it, Jim Godfrey can.”

Vantine seemed deeply perturbed.  He took a turn or two up and down the room, then stopped in front of me and looked me earnestly in the eye.

“Tell me, Lester,” he said, “do you believe that theory of Godfrey’s —­that that insignificant wound on the hand caused death?”

“It seems absurd, doesn’t it?  But Godfrey is a sort of genius at divining such things.”

“Then you do believe it?”

I asked myself the same question before I answered.

“Yes, I do,” I said, finally.

Vantine walked up and down the room again, his eyes on the floor, his brows contracted.