“I’ve told you all I know, Mr. Lester,” said Rogers, but he did not meet my eyes.  “And I’m feeling pretty bad.  I think I’d better be getting to bed.”

“Yes, that’s best,” agreed Godfrey promptly.  “Parks will help you,” and he held out his hand for the photograph.

Rogers relinquished it with evident reluctance.  He opened his lips as though to ask a question; then closed them again, and got slowly to his feet, Parks aiding him.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” he said weakly, and shuffled away, leaning heavily on Parks’s shoulder.

“Well!” said I, looking at Godfrey.  “What do you think of that?”

“He’s lying, of course.  We’ve got to find out why he’s lying and bring it home to him.  But it’s getting late—­I must get down to the office.  One word, Lester—­be sure Rogers doesn’t give you the slip.”

“I’ll have him looked after,” I promised.  “But I fancy he’ll be afraid to run away.  Besides, it is possible he’s telling the truth.  I don’t believe any woman had anything to do with either death.”

Godfrey turned, as he was starting away, and stopped to look at me.

“Who did then?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

“You mean they both suicided in that abnormal way?”

“No, it wasn’t suicide—­they were killed—­but not by a human being —­at least, not directly.”  I felt that I was floundering hopelessly, and stopped.  “I can’t tell you now, Godfrey,” I pleaded.  “I haven’t had time to think it out.  You’ve got enough for one day.”

“Yes,” he smiled; “I’ve got enough for one day.  And now good-bye.  Perhaps I’ll look in on you about midnight, on my way home, if I get through by then.”

I sighed.  Godfrey’s energy became a little wearing sometimes.  I was already longing for bed, and there remained so much to be done.  But he, after a day which I knew had been a hard one, and with a many-column story still to write, was apparently as fresh and eager as ever.

“All right,” I agreed.  “If you see a light, come up.  If there isn’t any light, I’ll be in bed, and I’ll kill you if you wake me.”

“Conditions accepted,” he laughed, as I opened the door for him.

Parks joined me as I turned back into the house.

“I got Rogers to bed, sir,” he said.  “He’ll be all right in the morning.  But he’s a queer duck.”

“How long have you known him, Parks?”

“He’s been with Mr. Vantine about five years.  I don’t know much about him; he’s a silent kind of fellow, keeping to hisself a good deal and sort of brooding over things.  But he did his work all right, except once in a while when he keeled over like he did to-night.”

“Parks,” I said, suddenly, “I’m going to ask you a question.  You know that Mr. Vantine was a friend of mine, and I thought a great deal of him.  Now, what with this story Rogers tells, and one or two other things, there is talk of a woman.  Is there any foundation for talk of that kind?”