“You can’t fool a man on his own cousin, youngster,” he said flatly.  “The idea is absurd.”

The crime unquestionably was an outside job; the window opening on the fire-escape had been jimmied, the marks left being clearly visible.  Apparently Frederick Cavendish had previously opened the safe door—­since it presented no evidence of being tampered with—­and was examining certain papers on the table, when the intruder had stolen up from behind and dealt him a heavy blow probably, from the nature of the wound, using a piece of lead pipe.  Perhaps in falling Cavendish’s arm had caught in the curtains, pulling them from the supporting rod and dragging them across the table, thus sweeping the candlestick with its lighted tapers down to the floor with it.  There the extinguished wicks had ignited the draperies, which had fallen across the stricken man’s face and body.  The clothes, torso, and legs, had been charred beyond recognition but the face, by some peculiar whim of fate, had been partly preserved.

The marauder, aware that the flames would obliterate a portion, if not all of the evidence against him, had rifled the safe in which, John testified, his cousin always kept considerable money.  Scattering broadcast valueless papers, he had safely made his escape through the window, leaving his victim’s face to the licking flames.  Foot-prints below the window at the base of the fire-escape indicated that the fugitive had returned that way.  This was the sum of the evidence, circumstantial and true, that was advanced.  Satisfied that nothing else was to be learned, the officers, detectives, Willis, and Miss Donovan and the pale Chronicle youth withdrew, leaving the officer on guard.

The same day, young John, eager to be away from the scene, moved his belongings to the Fairmount Hotel, and, since no will was found in the dead man’s papers, the entire estate came to him, as next of kin.  A day or two later the body was interred in the family lot beside the father’s grave, and the night of the funeral young John Cavendish dined at an out-of-the-way road-house with a blonde with a hard metallic voice.  Her name was Miss Celeste La Rue.

And the day following he discharged Francois Valois without apparent cause, in a sudden burst of temper.  So, seemingly, the curtain fell on the last act of the play.

CHAPTER III:  MR. ENRIGHT DECLARES HIMSELF

One month after the Cavendish murder and two days after he had despatched a casual, courteous note to John Cavendish requesting that he call, Mr. Patrick Enright, of Enright and Dougherty, sat in his private office on the top floor of the Collander Building in Cortlandt Street waiting for the youth’s appearance.  Since young Cavendish had consulted him before in minor matters, Mr. Enright had expected that he would call voluntarily soon after the murder, but in this he was disappointed.  Realising that Broadway was very dear to the young man, Enright had made allowances, until, weary of waiting, he decided to get into the game himself and to this end had despatched the note, to which Cavendish had replied both by telephone and note.