“Of course I killed Connor--it was inevitable.” And then the car carried him away. Angel locked the door of the deposit, and handed the key to Kathleen. “I will ask Jimmy to take you home,” he said. “What do you think of him?” said Jimmy. “Spedding? Oh, he’s acted as I thought he would. He represents the very worst type of criminal in the world; you cannot condemn, any more than you can explain, such men as that. They are in a class by themselves--Nature’s perversities. There is a side to Spedding that is particularly pleasant.” He saw the two off, then walked slowly to the City Police Station. The inspector on duty nodded to him as he entered. “We have put him in a special cell,” he said. “Has he been well searched?” “Yes, sir. The usual kit, and a revolver loaded in five chambers.” “Let me see it,” said Angel. He took the pistol under the gaslight. One chamber contained an empty shell, and the barrel was foul. That will hang him without his confession, he thought. “He asked for a pencil and paper,” said the inspector, “but he surely does not expect bail.” Angel shook his head. “No, I should imagine he wants to write to me.” A door burst open, and a bareheaded jailer rushed in. “There’s something wrong in No. 4,” he said, and Angel followed the inspector as he ran down the narrow corridor, studded with iron doors on either side. The inspector took one glance through the spy-hole. “Open the door!” he said quickly. With a jangle and rattle of bolts, the door was opened. Spedding lay on his back, with a faint smile on his lips; his eyes were closed, and Angel, thrusting his hand into the breast of the stricken man, felt no beat of the heart. “Run for a doctor!” said the inspector. “It’s no use,” said Angel quietly, “the man’s dead.” On the rough bed lay a piece of paper. It was addressed in the lawyer’s bold hand to Angel Esquire. The detective picked it up and read it. “Excellent Angel,” the letter ran, “the time has come when I must prove for myself the vexed question of immortality. I would say that I bear you no ill will, nor your companion, nor the charming Miss Kent. I would have killed you all, or either, of course, but happily my intentions have not coincided with my opportunities. For some time past I have foreseen the possibility of my present act, and have worn on every suit one button, which, colored to resemble its fellows, is in reality a skilfully molded pellet of cyanide. Farewell.” Angel looked down at the dead man at his feet. The top cloth-covered button on the right breast had been torn away. CHAPTER XV THE SOLUTION