“I have no information. I have no idea.” For the first time Reggie spoke. “I wonder if you have a theory?” “I don’t consider it is my duty to imagine theories.” “Do you know any one who wants to ruin you? Or why any one should?” “I beg your pardon. I must decline to be led into wild speculations of that kind.” Kimball started up. “You make it impossible to do anything for you. I have given you every chance, remember that--every chance. It’s beyond me now. I can only advise you to consider your position. I don’t know whether your resignation will save you from worse consequences. I’ll do what I can. But you make it very hard. Good morning. You had better not go back to the office.” “I deny every imputation,” said Sandford. “Good morning, sir.” Half apologetically Kimball turned to the others. “There’s nothing for it, I suppose. We’ll have to go through with it now. You’ll let me have an official report. The fellow’s hopeless. Poor devil!” “I can’t say he touches my heart,” said Lomas. Kimball laughed without mirth. “He can’t help himself,” he said, and went out. “I shouldn’t have thought Kimball was so human,” said Lomas. “Well, sir, he always has stuck to his men, I must say,” said Superintendent Bell. “I wonder he could stick to Sandford for a day.” “That Mr. Sandford, he is what you might call a superior person,” Bell chuckled. “Funny how they brazen it out, that kind.” “Yes, I don’t doubt he thinks he was most impressive. Well, Fortune, there’s not much here for you, I’m afraid.” Reggie had gone to the window and was fidgeting there. “I say, the wind’s changed,” said he. “That’s something, anyway.” PHASE III.--THE MAN UNDER THE SNOW The porter of Montmorency House, awaking next morning, discovered that even in the well of his flats, where the air is ever the most stagnant in London, the snow was melting fast. After breakfast he saw some clothes emerging from the slush. This annoyed him, for he cherished that little court. The tenants, he remarked to his wife, were always doing something messy, but dropping their trousers down the well was the limit. He splashed out into the slush and found a corpse. After lunch Reggie Fortune, drowsing over the last published play of Herr Wedekind, was roused by the telephone, which, speaking with the voice of Superintendent Bell, urged him to come at once to the mortuary. “Who’s dead?” he asked. “Sandford hanged himself in red tape? Kimball had a stroke?” “It’s what you might call anonymous,” said the voice of the Superintendent. “Just the sort of case you like.” “I never like a case,” said Reggie, with indignation, and rang off. At the door of the mortuary Superintendent Bell appeared as his car stopped. “You’re damned mysterious,” Reggie complained. “Not me, sir. If you can tell me who the fellow is, I’ll be obliged. But what I want to know first is, what was the cause of death. You’ll excuse me, I won’t tell you how he was found till you’ve formed your opinion.”