Stafford got and held his visitor’s eyes, and with slow emphasis said:  “You think that Fellowes committed suicide with your needle?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Then I fear my intelligence must be failing rapidly.  You said—­”

“I said I was not sure that he killed himself.  I am sure that he was killed by my needle; but I am not sure that he killed himself.  Motive and all that kind of thing would come in there.”

“Ah—­and all that kind of thing!  Why should you discard motive for his killing himself?”

“I did not say I discarded motive, but I think Mr. Fellowes the last man in the world likely to kill himself.”

“Why, then, do you think he stole the needle?”

“Not to kill himself.”

Stafford turned his head away a little.  “Come now; this is too tall.  You are going pretty far in suggesting that Fellowes took your needle to kill some one else.”

“Perhaps.  But motive might not be so far to seek.”

“What motive in this case?” Stafford’s eyes narrowed a little with the inquiry.

“Well, a woman, perhaps.”

“You know of some one, who—­”

“No.  I am only assuming from Mr. Fellowes’ somewhat material nature that there must be a woman or so.”

“Or so—­why ‘or so?’” Stafford pressed him into a corner.

“There comes the motive—­one too many, when one may be suspicious, or jealous, or revengeful, or impossible.”

“Did you see any mark of the needle on the body?”

“I think so.  But that would not do more than suggest further delicate, detailed, and final examination.”

“You have no trace of the needle itself?”

“None.  But surely that isn’t strange.  If he had killed himself, the needle would probably have been found.  If he did not kill himself, but yet was killed by it, there is nothing strange in its not being recovered.”

Stafford took on the gravity of a dry-as-dust judge.  “I suppose that to prove the case it would be necessary to produce the needle, as your theory and your invention are rather new.”

“For complete proof the needle would be necessary, though not indispensable.”

Stafford was silent for an instant, then he said:  “You have had a look for the little instrument of passage?”

“I was rather late for that, I fear.”

“Still, by chance, the needle might have been picked up.  However, it would look foolish to advertise for a needle which had traces of atric acid on it, wouldn’t it?”

Mr. Mappin looked at Stafford quite coolly, and then, ignoring the question, said, deliberately:  “You discovered the body, I hear.  You didn’t by any chance find the needle, I suppose?”

Stafford returned his look with a cool stare.  “Not by any chance,” he said, enigmatically.

He had suddenly decided on a line of action which would turn this astute egoist from his half-indicated purpose.  Whatever the means of Fellowes’ death, by whomsoever caused, or by no one, further inquiry could only result in revelations hurtful to some one.  As Mr. Mappin had surmised, there was more than one woman,—­there may have been a dozen, of course—­but chance might just pitch on the one whom investigation would injure most.