“Shall I come, too?” asked Godfrey.

Even under the stress of the moment, I could not but smile at the question and at the tone in which it was uttered.

“Perhaps you’d better,” I agreed.  “It sounded pretty serious.”

We went down together in the elevator, and three minutes later we had hailed a taxi and were speeding eastward toward the Avenue.  It had started to drizzle, and the asphalt shone like a black mirror, dancing with the lights along either side.  The streets were almost empty, for the theatre-crowd had passed, and as we reached the Avenue and turned down-town, the driver pushed up his spark, and we hurtled along toward Fourteenth street at a speed which made me think of the traffic regulations.  But no policeman interfered, and five minutes later we drew up before the Vantine place.

Parks must have been on the front steps looking for me, for he came running down them almost before the car had stopped.  I caught a glimpse of his face under the street lights, as I thrust a bill into the driver’s hand, and it fairly startled me.

“Is it you, Mr. Lester?” he gasped.  “Good God, but I’m glad you’re here—­”

I caught him by the arm.

“Steady, man,” I said.  “Don’t let yourself go to pieces.  Now—­what has happened?”

He seemed to take a sort of desperate grip of himself.

“I’ll show you, sir,” he said, and ran up the steps, along the hall, to the door of the ante-room where we had found the Frenchman’s body.  “In there, sir!” he sobbed.  “In there!” and clung to the wall as I opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was ablaze with light, and for an instant my eyes were so dazzled that I could distinguish nothing.  Dimly I saw Godfrey spring forward and drop to his knees.

Then my eyes cleared, and I saw, on the very spot where d’Aurelle had died, another body—­or was it the same, brought back that the tragedy of the afternoon might, in some mysterious way, be re-enacted?

I remember bending over and peering into the face—­

It was the face of Philip Vantine.

A minute must have passed as I stood there dazed and shaken.  I was conscious, in a way, that Godfrey was examining him.  Then I heard his voice.

“He’s dead,” he said.

Then there was an instant’s silence.

“Lester, look here!” cried Godfrey’s voice, sharp, insistent.  “For God’s sake, look here!”

Godfrey was kneeling there holding something toward me.

“Look here!” he cried again.

It was the dead man’s hand he was holding; the right hand; a swollen and discoloured hand.  And on the back of it, just above the knuckles, were two tiny wounds, from which a few drops of blood had trickled.

And as I stared at this ghastly sight, scarce able to believe my eyes, I heard a choking voice behind me, saying over and over again: 

“It was that woman done it!  It was that woman done it!  Damn her!  It was that woman done it!”