“That will be all, Fuller; thank you.”

The brisk young man had reached the door when the investigator added: 

“One moment.”

He scribbled something upon a pad, tore off the leaf and handed it to his aid.

“Look these things up at once.”

Fuller took the paper, glanced at it and then replied: 

“Very well, sir.”

Seated in his big chair with the jar of Greek tobacco and sheaf of brown paper wrappers before him, Ashton-Kirk did not display any haste in removing the covering from the bayonet that had let the life out of the art dealer.  Rather he sank deeper into the arms of the chair; the cigarette end became gray and dead between his fingers; the strangely brilliant eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep.

But Pendleton, who understood his friend’s ways, knew better; the keen, swift-moving mind was but arranging the developments of the day, weighing them, giving to each its proper value.  A little later and the eyes would unclose, more than likely alight with some new idea, some fresh purpose drawn from his reflections.

And as Pendleton waited he, too, fell into a musing state and also began marshaling the facts as he saw them.  Ashton-Kirk, during dinner, had told him those regarding the visit of Edyth Vale the day before.

“Pen, you know I don’t usually do this,” the investigator had informed him.  “But as you know so much already, and your feelings in the matter being what they are, I think it best that you should know more.”

And now Pendleton, as he rolled and consumed cigarette after cigarette, went over the facts as they had been laid before him.

“And Morris,” said he to himself, as he reached the end of his friend’s recital; “now what sort of a mess has Allan Morris got himself into?  And after he had got into it, why in heaven’s name didn’t he keep quiet about it?  What good could come from Edyth’s knowing it?”

Then the fact that Morris had apparently tried to keep his secret from Miss Vale presented itself.  But Pendleton dismissed it with contempt.

“Tried!” he said to himself.  “Of course; but how?  By marching up and down the floor.  By a great parade of tragic despair; by sighs and the wringing of his hands.  I’ve always suspected Morris of being a bit theatrical—­and now I am sure of it.”

He roused himself for a moment, lighted a fresh cigarette and settled back once more.

“I’m not Kirk by any means,” he reflected, “and this sort of thing is altogether out of my line.  But it seems clear that Edyth—­after leaving here yesterday—­received some unexpected news.  When she was here, consulting Kirk, she was, to all appearances, in a quandary—­helpless.  She did not know how to proceed; she understood nothing.  But her darting off alone that way after midnight proves that some sort of a crisis had come up.  She had heard something—­more than likely through Morris.  He probably,” with great contempt, “became hysterical again, couldn’t contain himself and blabbed everything—­whatever it was.”