I left him with the newspaper and a box of cigars, and went down to the City

till luncheon. When I got back the liftman had an important face.

 

“Nawsty business ’ere this morning, sir. Gent in No. 15 been and shot ’isself.

They’ve just took ’im to the mortiary. The police are up there now.”

 

I ascended to No. 15, and found a couple of bobbies and an inspector busy making

an examination. I asked a few idiotic questions, and they soon kicked me out.

Then I found the man that had valeted Scudder, and pumped him, but I could see

he suspected nothing. He was a whining fellow with a churchyard face, and

half-a-crown went far to console him.

 

I attended the inquest next day. A partner of some publishing firm gave evidence

that the deceased had brought him wood-pulp propositions, and had been, he

believed, an agent of an American business. The jury found it a case of suicide

while of unsound mind, and the few effects were handed over to the American

Consul to deal with. I gave Scudder a full account of the affair, and it

interested him greatly. He said he wished he could have attended the inquest,

for he reckoned it would be about as spicy as to read one’s own obituary notice.

 

The first two days he stayed with me in that back room he was very peaceful. He

read and smoked a bit, and made a heap of jottings in a note-book, and every

night we had a game of chess, at which he beat me hollow. I think he was nursing

his nerves back to health, for he had had a pretty trying time. But on the third

day I could see he was beginning to get restless. He fixed up a list of the days