“Well, Donovan,” said the county physician, “your friend saved you the trouble of convicting him.”

“Yep.  But I’d a had him all right.  I’d a sent him to the chair without any trouble.  But what ailed him, Doc?”

“I can’t say yet.  Looks like a case of heart disease.  I’ll hold an autopsy in the morning.  He’s dead all right.”

“I thought maybe some of the other prisoners might have got in and croaked him,” commented the headquarters detective.  “Riley was saying some one let out a yell.”

“That was Schmidt—­fellow that killed his wife,” interposed the deputy warden.  “He’s in the cell next to where the Dago was.  Schmidt said he heard the foreigner breathing awful funny.  It was his last breath all right.  He was dead when I got in, Doc.”

“Yes, they go quick that way.”

“Are you sure it was heart disease, Dr. Warren?” asked the colonel.

“No, not at all.  I just mentioned that as most probable.  He didn’t look strong.  I can’t tell for a certainty until to-morrow.”

“Pardon me, Dr. Warren, for presuming on what is particularly your own ground, but did you look to see if any of the cigarettes were left in his cell?”

“I didn’t notice.  If you want to take a look come on back.  And I don’t in the least mind any suggestions from you, Colonel.  I’m too much interested in your work.  In fact, I’d be glad to have you help in this investigation if you think there’s anything crooked.”

“Oh, not at all.  Suicide is, of course, the most natural suspicion in a case like this, and it isn’t hard to conceal enough opium in a cigarette to kill a dozen men.”

“Blazes!  I never thought of that!” ejaculated the deputy.  “Come on!” and he led the way back to the cell.

Singa Phut’s body had been removed to another part of the jail.  But the cell was as it had been when the final summons came to the East Indian.

There were the few poor possessions he had been allowed to have with him—­simple and apparently safe enough.  And, scattered on the floor, were some of the cigarettes, made from strong Latakia tobacco, the peculiar odor of which was, even yet, noticeable in the corners of the cell.

“He smoked some of ’em all right,” observed the deputy.

“Let’s have a look,” suggested the colonel.  “If we had a better light in here it might help.”

“I’ll bring one of the two-hundred watt bulbs we use down in the office,” said the warden, who had joined the little group.  There was an electric light socket in each cell—­recently installed as the result of the agitation of a prison reform committee.  The low-powered bulb was taken out and the glaring nitrogen gas one substituted.  It made the cell very bright, and by the glare the colonel gathered up a number of the cigarettes.  Some had been smoked down to a mere stub; others had not been lighted, and two or three were broken in half, neither end showing signs of either having been scorched by a match or wet by the lips of Singa Phut.