Doctor Thornton shot a quick glance at Andrews, as if he would like to know just how much his visitor knew or suspected.

Andrews drew a paper from his pocket.  “This is a copy of the death-certificate,” he said.  “The Board of Health has furnished it to us.  Our physicians at the insurance company tell me it is rather extraordinarily vague.  A word from us calling the attention of the proper authorities to it would be sufficient, I think.  But, Doctor, that is just the point.  We do not desire publicity any more than you do.  We could have the body of Mr. Morowitch exhumed and examined, but I prefer to get the facts in the case without resorting to such extreme measures.”

“It would do no good,” interrupted the doctor hastily.  “And if you’ll save me the publicity, I’ll tell you why.”

Andrews nodded, but still held the death-certificate where the doctor was constantly reminded of it.

“In that certificate I have put down the cause of death as congestion of the lungs due to an acute attack of pneumonia.  That is substantially correct, as far as it goes.  When I was summoned to see Mr. Morowitch I found him in a semiconscious state and scarcely breathing.  Mrs. Morowitch told me that he had been brought home in a taxicab by a man who had picked him up on William Street.  I’m frank to say that at first sight I thought it was a case of plain intoxication, for Mr. Morowitch sometimes indulged a little freely when he made a splendid deal.  I smelled his breath, which was very feeble.  It had a sickish sweet odour, but that did not impress me at the time.  I applied my stethoscope to his lungs.  There was a very marked congestion, and I made as my working diagnosis pneumonia.  It was a case for quick and heroic action.  In a very few minutes I had a tank of oxygen from the hospital.

“In the meantime I had thought over that sweetish odour, and it flashed on my mind that it might, after all, be a case of poisoning.  When the oxygen arrived I administered it at once.  As it happens, the Rockefeller Institute has just published a report of experiments with a new antidote for various poisons, which consists simply in a new method of enforced breathing and throwing off the poison by oxidising it in that way.  In either case—­the pneumonia theory or the poison theory—­this line of action was the best that I could have adopted on the spur of the moment.  I gave him some strychnine to strengthen his heart and by hard work I had him resting apparently a little easier.  A nurse had been sent for, but had not arrived when a messenger came to me telling of a very sudden illness of Mrs. Morey, the wife of the steel-magnate.  As the Morey home is only a half-block away, I left Mr. Morowitch, with very particular instructions to his wife as to what to do.

“I had intended to return immediately, but before I got back Mr. Morowitch was dead.  Now I think I’ve told you all.  You see, it was nothing but a suspicion—­hardly enough to warrant making a fuss about.  I made out the death-certificate, as you see.  Probably that would have been all there was to it if I hadn’t heard of this incomprehensible robbery.  That set me thinking again.  There, I’m glad I’ve got it out of my system.  I’ve thought about it a good deal since your man was here to see me.”