“Plain motive. Theft. How do you know what Mr. LaMotte was carryin’ in his pocket just last night? The butler knew. Mebbe a jewel for a girl. Or a bundle of securities. Surely a wad of bills, and he preparin’ for a journey.” “Oh, he was preparing for a journey?” Gavegan gave me a gentle look of pity. “Come over here,” he beckoned with his head. On a small teak-wood desk between the windows, lay a diary pad bound in black levant. It was open to this day. There was one note, scrawled small in pencil: “_Gr Ct M 10.30_” I fingered the pad. There were almost no other entries. “What do you think that means?” Gavegan loomed. “Grand Central Station. Train at 10.30. And meetin’ there with ... M.” “Plausible,” I said, and was unsure if I agreed or if I mocked. “I suppose you know already who is ‘M’?” He eyed me with omniscience. “That we don’t give out, sir. Even to a distinguished friend.” “But the wound, Gavegan! Have you looked at the wound?” He was stupid. I prepared to tell my thoughts. Was it because or despite that he was too stupid to receive them? “The wound might puzzle you, I think, if you had studied more anatomy. The man who dealt it did so from above, for it struck the right auricle of the heart at an angle of less than forty-five degrees! How could a short man do that to a man six feet one and a half? And how could any man murder LaMotte like that, if LaMotte were not literally _baring his breast_: parting his arms, even raising his arms (the muscle wound shows that, besides) in order to receive the blow?” The image of a victim coöperating with his slayer was too much for the law. The discomfort of my analysis struck Mr. Gavegan as an impertinent invasion. He barred it with laughter. I could see his thought in his mouth and his eye. “--These scientist cranks.” I went on: not knowing, again, if my motive was to convince or was bravado in the certainty that my man was beneath convincing. “Gavegan, have you ever noted the subtle stigmata of the hypnotic trauma?” Gavegan grumbled. “I’m afraid, sir, I’ll be havin’ to let you go. The Coroner’s cormin’ again. We always likes to be hospitable to the big doctors at the Institutions, whenever we can help ’em in their studies.” He pulled a huge silver timepiece from his vest, and went to the window, and looked out. I was immersed so fully, that even now my action did not make my mind break in amaze from the rhythm of events. The big man was at the window looking out: for he believed he had heard the Coroner’s car, and doubtless this meant that his night’s work was over and he could go to his wife. I moved unhesitant to an open door that led into a little passage. A strip of blue carpet covered the floor. And naked-clear there lay on it a white envelope which I picked up and put into my pocket. I thanked Gavegan: gave him two cigars, and left. _h_