“Why not?” I demanded.

“Because it is evident that that isn’t his name.”

“Go ahead and tell me, Godfrey,” I said, as he looked at me, smiling.  “I don’t see it.”

“Why, it’s plain enough.  He had five cards in his pocket, no two alike.  The sixth, selected probably at random, he had sent up to Vantine.”

I saw it then, of course; and I felt a good deal as the Spanish savants must have felt when Columbus stood the egg on end.  Godfrey smiled again at my expression.

“The real d’Aurelle, whoever he may turn out to be, may be able to help us,” he added.  “If he can’t, we may learn something from the Paris police.  The dead man’s Bertillon measurements have been cabled over to them.  Even that won’t help, if he has never been arrested.  And, of course, we can’t get at motives until we find out something about him.”

“But, Godfrey,” I said, “suppose you knew who he was and what he wanted with Vantine—­suppose you could make a guess at who killed him and why—­how was it done?  That is what stumps me.  How was it done?”

“Ah!” agreed Godfrey.  “That’s it!  How was it done?  I told you it was a pretty case, Lester.  But wait till we hear from Paris.”

“That reminds me,” I said, sitting up suddenly, “I’ve got to cable to Paris myself, on some business for Mr. Vantine.”

“Not connected with this affair?”

“Oh, no; his shippers over there sent him a piece of furniture that doesn’t belong to him.  He asked me to straighten the matter out.”

I rang for the hall-boy, asked for a cable-blank, and sent off a message to Armand & Son, telling them of the mistake and asking them to cable the name of the owner of the cabinet now in Mr. Vantine’s possession.  Godfrey sat smoking reflectively while I was thus engaged, staring straight before him with eyes that saw nothing; but as I sat down again and took up my pipe, ready to continue the conversation, he gave himself a sort of shake, put on his hat, and got to his feet.

“I must be moving along,” he said.  “There’s no use sitting here theorising until we have some sort of foundation to build on.”

“Goldberger was right in one thing,” I remarked.  “He pointed out, after you left, that most crimes are not romances, but mere brutalities.  Perhaps this one—­”

The ringing of my telephone stopped me.

“Hello,” I said, taking down the receiver.

“Is that you, Mr. Lester?” asked a voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Parks,” and I suddenly realised that his voice was unfamiliar because it was hoarse and quivering with emotion.  “Could you come down to the house right away, sir?”

“Why, yes,” I said, wonderingly, “if it’s important.  Does Mr. Vantine need me?”

“We all need you!” said the voice, and broke into a dry sob.  “For God’s sake, come quick, Mr. Lester!”

“All right,” I said without further parley, for evidently he had lost his self-control.  “Something has happened down at Vantine’s,” I added to Godfrey, as I hung up the receiver.  “Parks seems to be scared to death.  He wants me to come down right away,” and I reached for my hat and coat.