“And each case was spooky, too. In each case the victim’s desk was close to one of the windows; in each case Orodoff Guimaraes was out, but there were two other men, renters of desk-room, at desks further back in the office; in each case the other men, seated at their desks twenty feet and more away, had been talking across the room to the victim; in each case the other men, different men each time, had turned round to look at something on their desks, had heard no sound, no movement, no cry, but when they looked round again found themselves alone in the room, and, going to the window, saw the victim crushed on the pavement below.” He stopped. “Why don’t they have a railing or a balustrade across the open window?” Rex inquired. “Custom,” Brundige rejoined. “Custom rules everything down there; custom rules everything all over South America. In Rio all upstairs offices have French windows down to the floor. It’s a hot climate and no window has a rail or even a bar across it. To have unobstructed windows is the custom.” “Fool custom!” said Buck. Just then Leslie came out and joined us. She had been attending to her household duties, or giving orders about breakfast, or entertaining a boarder or something like that. After she was settled next to Rex she said: “I had a letter from Pake this morning. He says there are some fine girls down there in Rio. Says he has had no end of fun with them. He must have been in a good humor when he wrote that letter. It’s a long letter and very funny. He tells how he pretended to make love to a girl, just to annoy a fool of a dude who was always making eyes at her, how at first the dude was mad, how he saw the joke and behaved real sensibly. Pake says they got to be real good friends. He tells it all very well. I’ll read it to you to-morrow.” Leslie was bubbling with merriment, as unconscious as possible and very girlish. But about the rest of us the atmosphere seemed to tingle. I could feel, as it were, the spiritual tension. Buck asked, thickly: “Did he tell you the fellow’s name?” “No,” said Leslie cheerfully. “He never mentioned his name. But he says they are real good friends.” Just then the banjo party on the little bridge stood up. We heard cheerful greetings and recognized Mattie’s voice. She had strolled over on foot, her home being a very short distance down the road. She came up on the porch, a big, solid matronly young woman. I caught a glimpse of her plump face as the lamplight through the open doorway struck on her, her brown eyes smiling merrily. Buck sat down on the porch floor, his feet on the steps, his back against a pillar. Mattie took his chair. She also took charge and control of the conversation. “Alf drove to Hagerstown right after supper,” she said. “He ought to be back soon. I told him I was coming over here and he’ll come right here when he comes out.” This was in answer to my query.