“Anybody else?”

“Yes, a detective from Brooklyn.  He thought there might be a job for him, but there wasn’t, so he went away,” and the policeman smiled grimly.

“What was his name?”

“I think he said it was Peterson.”

“Is that the Bardon house yonder?” And Adam Adams pointed through the window and across the side lawn.

“Yes.  Doctor Bardon was the first to come over—­he and his mother.”

“So I heard.  I think I’ll step over and speak to them a moment.”

“So you are working for Miss Langmore?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“You’ll have an uphill job clearing her.  The coroner thinks he has a clear case against her.”

“Do you know what evidence he possesses?”

“Not exactly.  He isn’t telling all he knows,” returned the officer of the law.  “There is the doctor now.”

A buggy was coming down the road.  It turned in at the next house, and a young man, carrying a small case, leaped out and disappeared into the dwelling.

In a few minutes more, Adam Adams made his way next door.  An elderly servant admitted him and ushered him into the doctor’s office, where the young physician sat marking down some calls in his notebook.

“This is Doctor Bardon, I believe.  I just came over from the Langmore house.  I am working on this mystery, and I understand you were the physician who tried to bring Mr. and Mrs. Langmore to life after they were found.”

“I worked over Mr. Langmore, yes,” was the young physician’s answer.  “I saw at once that it was impossible to do anything for his wife.  She had a weak heart naturally, and was stone dead some time before I got there.”

“You thought you saw a spark of life in Mr. Langmore?”

“Not exactly a spark, but I thought there might be hope.  But I was mistaken, although I did everything I could.”

“I have been told that working over the corpse made you sick.”

At these words, the face of the young physician showed his annoyance.  He drew himself up.

“Excuse me, but you are—­” and he paused inquiringly.

“I am working on this case in the interests of Miss Langmore.  My name is Adams.”

“Oh!”

“What I would like to know is, What made you sick?  Was it merely that a crime had been committed—­something you were not accustomed to?”

“No, it was not, Mr. Adams.  I am young, I know, but I have had a good hospital experience, and such things do not unnerve me.  To be sure, Mr. Langmore was a good neighbor, and I thought much of him.  But it was not that.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was something about the corpse.  As I worked I had to sneeze—­something seemed to get into my nose and throat, and in a minute more I began to have cramps and grew deathly sick.  It was the queerest sensation I ever experienced in my life.  I haven’t gotten over it yet.”