"I will," and Miller's fist came softly down on his desk. "Did you hear no report?" "None; there was a Maxim silencer on the rifle." "I see--and blank cartridges in the breech." "That is what I first thought on seeing Mr. Whitney still standing," admitted Heinrich. "I believed he was trying to commit suicide. Then I heard him exclaim: 'God be thanked! I've solved the problem; it stood the test.'" "Hardly a suicide's speech." Miller stared at Heinrich. "Probably he was testing the Maxim silencer." "No, Herr Captain." The chauffeur almost jumbled his words over each other in his haste. "An instant after the flash, I saw Mr. Whitney sway upon his feet, recover his balance, and stand upright." "The blast of powder must have caused that." "He was fully the length of the room from the muzzle of the rifle. There were no powder marks on his vest and coat when he opened the door in response to my knock a few minutes later. You see, Herr Captain, as soon as I got back my wits, I closed the door. When Mr. Whitney pulled out his gold pencil from his vest pocket to sign for the telegram I heard something drop on the floor, and letting the receipt slip fall, I stooped over and picked up with it--this--" and he laid on the desk a Mauser bullet. Miller examined it curiously. His companion was the first to break the silence. "It is flattened on one side, Herr Captain." "I see it is." Miller weighed the bullet in his hand. "You have something more to tell me, Heinrich; out with it." "Yes, Herr Captain. That night I bribed Vincent to let me valet Mr. Whitney, and I found the vest he wore that afternoon. In it, over the heart, was a round hole." "Did the bullet fit it?" "Exactly." There was a protracted silence, which the chauffeur broke with a question. "What do you make out of it, sir?" Miller did not answer directly. "Was Mr. Whitney wearing his ordinary business suit?" he inquired. "Yes, Herr Captain." "You are sure he wore nothing over it?" "Absolutely positive." Miller handed back the bullet. "It rather looks as if Mr. Whitney has invented some wearing apparel which Mauser bullets cannot penetrate," he said slowly, "or else...." "Yes, Herr Captain." "You are a great liar." CHAPTER XVI AT THE MORGUE Shortly before three o'clock on that same afternoon in which Heinrich had confided in Miller, dashing turnouts and limousines, their smartly liveried coachmen and chauffeurs asking now and then the direction from street-crossing policeman, trotted and tooted their way down busy Seventh Street toward the wharves, their destination a modest two-storied stuccoed building bearing the words, "D. C. Morgue." The inquest on Sinclair Spencer was to be held there at three o'clock.