“No, sir,” said Parks, emphatically.  “I’ve been Mr. Vantine’s valet for eight years and more, and in all that time he has never been mixed up with a woman in any shape or form.  I always fancied he’d loved a lady who died—­I don’t know what made me think so; but anyhow, since I’ve known him, he never looked at a woman—­not in that way.”

“Thank you, Parks,” I said, with a sigh of relief.  “I’ve been through so much to-day, that I felt I couldn’t endure that; and now—­”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said a voice at my elbow; “we have everything ready, sir.”

I turned with a start to see a little, clean-shaven man standing there, rubbing his hands softly together and gazing blandly up at me.

“The undertaker’s assistant, sir,” explained Parks, seeing my look of astonishment.  “He came while you and Mr. Godfrey were in the music-room.  Dr. Hughes sent him.”

“Yes, sir,” added the little man; “and we have the corpse ready for the coffin.  Very nice it looks, too; though it was a hard job.  Was it poison killed him, sir?”

“Yes,” I answered, with a feeling of nausea, “it was poison.”

“Very powerful poison, too, I should say, sir; we didn’t get here none too soon.  Where shall we put the body, sir?”

“Why not leave it where it is?” I asked, impatiently.

“Very good, sir,” said the man, and presently he and his assistant took themselves off, to my intense relief.

“And now, Parks,” I began, “there is something I want to say to you.  Let us go somewhere and sit down.”

“Suppose we go up to the study, sir.  You’re looking regularly done up, if you’ll permit me to say so, sir.  Shall I get you something?”

“A brandy-and-soda,” I assented; “and bring one for yourself.”

“Very good, sir,” and a few minutes later we were sitting opposite each other in the room where Vantine had offered me similar refreshment not many hours before.  I looked at Parks as he sat there, and turned over in my mind what I had to say to him.  I liked the man, and I felt he could be trusted.  At any rate, I had to take the risk.

“Now, Parks,” I began again, setting down my glass, “what I have to say to you is very serious, and I want you to keep it to yourself:  I know that you were devoted to Mr. Vantine—­I may as well tell you that he has remembered you in his will—­and I am sure you are willing to do anything in your power to help solve the mystery of his death.”

“That I am, sir,” Parks agreed, warmly.  “I was very fond of him, sir; nobody will miss him more than I will.”

I realised that the tragedy meant far more to Parks than it did even to me, for he had lost not only a friend, but a means of livelihood, and I looked at him with heightened sympathy.

“I know how you feel,” I said, “and I am counting on you to help me.  I have a sort of idea how his death came about.  Only the vaguest possible idea,” I added hastily, as his eyes widened with interest; “altogether too vague to be put into words.  But I can say this much —­the mystery, whatever it is, is in the ante-room where the bodies were found, or in the room next to it where the furniture is.  Now, I am going to lock up those rooms, and I want you to see that nobody enters them without your knowledge.”