And with Armand, so finished, so self-poised, so distinguished, in my mind, and the body of his latest victim before my eyes, I nodded gloomily.

“But who is he?” I asked.  “Do you know who he is, Godfrey?”

“There’s the ambulance,” broke in Simmonds, as a knock came at the street door, and he hurried down to open it.

“Come on, Lester,” and Godfrey hooked his arm through mine.  “There’s nothing more we can do here.  We’ll go down the back way.  I’ve had enough excitement for the time being—­haven’t you?”

“I certainly have,” I agreed, and he led the way back along the hall to another stair, down it and so out through the laundry.

“But, Godfrey, who is this man?” I repeated.  “Why did he kill that poor fellow up there?  Why did he kill Drouet and Vantine?  How did he get into the Vantine house?  What is it all about?”

“Ah!” he said, looking at me with a smile.  “That is the important question—­what is it all about!  But we can’t discuss it here in the street.  Besides, I want to think it over, Lester; and I want you to think it over.  If I can, I’ll drop in to-night to see you, and we can thresh it out!  Will that suit you?”

“Yes,” I said; “and for heaven’s sake, don’t fail to come!”

CHAPTER XXI

GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE

I had begun to fear that Godfrey was going to disappoint me, so late it was before his welcome knock came at my door that night.  I hastened to let him in, and I could tell by the sigh of relief with which he sank into a chair that he was thoroughly weary.

“It does me good to come in here occasionally and have a talk with you, Lester,” he said, accepting the cigar I offered him.  “I find it restful after a hard day,” and he smiled across at me good-humouredly.

“How you keep it up I don’t see,” I said.  “This one case has nearly given me nervous prostration.”

“Well, I don’t often strike one as strenuous as this,” and he settled back comfortably.  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t had one for a long time that even touches it.  There is nothing really mysterious about most crimes.”

“This one is certainly mysterious enough,” I remarked.

“What makes it mysterious,” Godfrey explained, “is the apparent lack of motive.  As soon as one learns the motive for a crime, one learns also who committed it.  But where the motive can’t be discovered, it is mighty hard to make any progress.”

“It isn’t only lack of motive which makes it mysterious,” I commented; “it’s everything about it.  I can’t understand either why it was done or how it was done.  When I get to thinking about it, I feel as though I were wandering around and around in a maze, from which I can never escape.”

“Oh, yes, you’ll escape, Lester,” said Godfrey, quietly, “and that before very long.”

“If you have an explanation, Godfrey,” I protested, “for heaven’s sake tell me!  Don’t keep me in the maze an instant longer than is necessary.  I’ve been thinking about it till my brain feels like a snarl of tangled thread.  Do you mean to say you know what it is all about?”