By this time we had reached Fifth Avenue, where our ways separated, Van Bult living on Washington Square, Littell at the Terrace Hotel, at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, and I, as I have said, at the Crescent Club, on Madison Square. We stood, however, talking for a few minutes, and while doing so Benton passed us, going east toward Broadway. Van Bult stopped him to ask how his master was. The man said he had dismissed him soon after we left, and had thrown himself down on the sofa without undressing, and had apparently gone to sleep. Littell asked if Davis was still with him, and the man replied, "No"; that "Mr. Davis had been leaving at the same time." He then bade us good-night, and went on. Van Bult here left us, and Littell and I walked as far as Madison Square together, where I crossed over and Littell continued on. As I entered the club and went up to my room, it was still a little before one o'clock. Contrary to the usual experiences as claimed of my fellow-men under similar circumstances, I do not recall that I had any misgivings that night or premonition of any sort of the terrible work that was to be done before day. Indeed, as well as I remember, I retired in an entirely placid frame of mind, and slept well. I doubt if I should ever have thought again of the occurrences of the evening, which after all were commonplace enough, were it not for the sequel that made every word and moment seem fraught with meaning. So, always, it is not the sayings and doings of men that are important but the sequence and sequel of events for which they are but the signs and tools. CHAPTER III A TRAGEDY I was awakened the next morning earlier than usual by a servant who announced in a hushed voice that Mr. White's man wanted to see me at once. I was naturally disinclined to get up at that hour, it being but a little after seven o'clock, and so directed that the man send me White's message. The reply that Mr. White was dead took me out of bed in a flash, and while I hurried into my clothes, the servant, in obedience to my order, went after Benton. Although but a few minutes had elapsed, I was about dressed when he appeared at the door. "Is it true," I asked, "that Mr. White is dead?" "Yes," he answered, and then coming in and closing the door, whispered: "He was murdered some time last night. I found him dead on the divan in the sitting-room, when I went there this morning." The news was almost too horrible to believe; but the white face and trembling voice of the man who told it, carried conviction. "How do you know he was murdered," I asked, after a moment's silence. "He was stabbed," he said; "the dagger was sticking in him up to the hilt." "Come on!" I told him, for now I was dressed, and I hurried down the stairs and out of the club, Benton following.