It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak. But, at last, with a great effort, he said: “_Ives._” “Ah!” said Donnelly. Ross waited and waited. “If you’d like to see—my bank book and papers,” he finally suggested. “No,” said Donnelly, soothingly. “No, never mind. And this James Ross. You never heard of him, I suppose?” “No.” “He landed in New York on Wednesday, went to a hotel in the city, left his bags, and came right out to Stamford—and fell in a pond. Now, that’s a queer stunt, isn’t it?” Ross put his arm round the child’s tiny shoulders and drew her close to him. “Very!” he agreed. “I thought so myself. Queer! I found the man’s pocketbook in that cottage—in that very room where you waited for me. What d’you think of that? There was a letter from a lawyer in New York—name of Teagle. I telephoned to him, and he came out. He could identify the man’s handwriting and so on. But he’d never seen him. Said he didn’t think there was any one in this country who had. He has a theory, though. Like to hear it—or are you in a hurry?” “No! Go ahead!” “Well, Teagle’s theory is that this Mr. James Ross knew he had a cousin out this way. Miss Solway, you know. It seems her mother made a match the family didn’t approve of, and they dropped her, years ago. Now, Teagle thinks this Mr. James Ross wanted to see for himself what this cousin was like, and that he came out to that cottage to stay while he sort of mooched around, getting information about her. Family feeling, see? Only—he met with an accident.” “That sounds plausible,” said Ross. “You’re right! Now, of course, there’ll be a coroner’s inquest tomorrow. _But_—” He paused. “I happened to be around when the doctor made his examination. And he says—the man was dead before he fell in the pond.” “Oh, God!” cried Ross, in his torment. “Don’t go on!” “Hold on a minute! Hold on! Of course that startles you, eh? You think it’s a case of murder, eh? Well, I’ll tell you now that the verdict’ll be—death from natural causes. No marks of violence. And Mr. James Ross had a very bad heart. I dare say he didn’t know it. He died of heart failure, and then he rolled down that slope. _I_ saw that for myself—saw bushes broken, and so on, where something had rolled or been dragged down there.” “Then?” “Then,” said Donnelly, “as far as I’m concerned, there’s no case. And I’ll say good-by to you. Maybe you wouldn’t mind shaking hands, Mr.—Ives?” Their hands met in a firm clasp. “On Miss Solway’s account,” said Donnelly, “I’m mighty glad you’re Mr. Ives. _Good_-by!” XX Ross was going away, at last. He was going as he had come, with no luggage, with no ceremony. Only, he was going to take with him a small child, and he left behind him his name, his money, and a good many illusions—and a friend. Eddy was not likely to forget him. “You’re—you’re a white man!” he said, in a very unsteady voice. “You’re—a prince.”