“Would it not be well to see if it is still there?” suggested the attorney.  “I suppose you have a key to the desk.”

“I have, sir,” he replied, at the same time producing it.  Crossing the room, he unlocked and opened the desk.  An instant later, he announced, as he closed the desk, “It is not here.”

There was a subdued murmur, and Mr. Thornton was heard to exclaim, “Suicide!  That has been my impression all along.”

Ralph Mainwaring glanced inquiringly at the attorney, who shook his head emphatically, while the coroner once more inspected the wound with an air of perplexity.

“Doctor,” inquired Ralph Mainwaring, “in your opinion, how long has life been extinct?”

“I should judge about eight or nine hours,” replied Dr. Hobart.  “What would you say, Dr. Westlake?”

“That would be my judgment, also.”

“You would say that death was instantaneous?” questioned the attorney.

“Without a doubt.  It could not have been otherwise?” Ralph Mainwaring consulted his watch.  “It is now half after nine; in your judgment, then, this must have occurred about one o’clock this morning?”

“About that time.”

“At what hour was Mr. Mainwaring last seen by any one in this house?” asked the coroner.

“As nearly as we have ascertained thus far, at about twelve o’clock.”

“Twelve?  Indeed!  By whom? and where?”

“By his private secretary, and in the library adjoining.”

“Very well,” said the coroner, after a pause, during which he had made a memorandum of certain details which he considered of special importance; “the undertaker can now be summoned as I believe he is waiting below, and we seem to have ascertained all the facts possible in this direction; and, Mr. Whitney, I will next see the valet, whom you say was the one to discover the situation this morning.”

In the slight confusion and delay which ensued, Mr. Elliott and Mr. Chittenden took their departure, with the usual expressions of condolence and regret, followed a few moments later by Dr. Hobart, who was accompanied downstairs by young Mainwaring.

Meanwhile, Mr. Merrick, having made a close scrutiny of the lifeless form, had been slowly walking back and forth in the tower-room and library, his hands in the pockets of his short sacque coat and his eyes apparently riveted on the floor.  Several times in the library he paused and, bending downward, seemed to be intently studying the carpet; then, after two or three turns about the room, he sauntered towards the windows and doors, examining the fastenings of each in turn, and, on reaching the door opening into the southern hall, suddenly disappeared.

“A very mysterious case!” commented the coroner, when he had finished his interview with the valet.  “Thus far nothing can be learned which throws much actual light on the subject one way or another, but if anybody can unravel the mystery, Merrick can.”