“An insurance detective, as you can readily appreciate, Kennedy, soon comes to recognise the characteristics in the crimes with which he deals.  For example, writing of the insurance plotted for rarely precedes the conspiracy to defraud.  That is, I know of few cases in which a policy originally taken out in good faith has subsequently become the means of a swindle.

“In outright-murder cases, the assassin induces the victim to take out insurance in his favour.  In suicide cases, the insured does so himself.  Just after his return home, young Phelps, who carried fifty thousand dollars already, applied for and was granted one of the largest policies we have ever written—­half a million.”

“Was it incontestible without the suicide clause?” asked Kennedy.

“Yes,” replied Andrews, “and suicide is the first and easiest theory.  Why, you have no idea how common the crime of suicide for the sake of the life insurance is becoming.  Nowadays, we insurance men almost believe that every one who contemplates ending his existence takes out a policy so as to make his life, which is useless to him, a benefit, at least, to some one—­and a nightmare to the insurance detective.”

“I know,” I cut in, for I recalled having been rather interested in the Phelps case at the time, “but I thought the doctors said finally that death was due to heart failure.”

“Doctor Forden who signed the papers said so,” corrected Andrews.  “Heart failure—­what does that mean?  As well say breath failure, or nerve failure.  I’ll tell you what kind of failure I think it was.  It was money failure.  Hard times and poor investments struck Phelps before he really knew how to handle his small fortune.  It called him home and—­pouf!—­he is off—­to leave to his family a cool half-million by his death.  But did he do it himself or did some one else do it?  That’s the question.”

“What is your theory,” inquired Kennedy absently, “assuming there is no scandal hidden in the life of Phelps before or after he married the Russian dancer?”

“I don’t know, Kennedy,” confessed Andrews.  “I have had so many theories and have changed them so rapidly that all I lay claim to believing, outside of the bald facts that I have stated, is that there must have been some poison.  I rather sense it, feel that there is no doubt of it, in fact.  That is why I have come to you.  I want you to clear it up, one way or another.  The company has no interest except in getting at the truth.”

“The body is really there?” asked Kennedy.  “You saw it?”

“It was there no later than this afternoon, and in an almost perfect state of preservation, too.”

Kennedy seemed to be looking at and through Andrews as if he would hypnotise the truth out of him.  “Let me see,” he said quickly.  “It is not very late now.  Can we visit the mausoleum to-night?”

“Easily.  My car is down-stairs.  Woodbine is not far, and you’ll find it a very attractive suburb, aside from this mystery.”