"I dare say you're right," he said, at length; "taking the evidence as a whole, I suppose the jury could only bring in a verdict of suicide. No one could have poisoned him. No one here knew him, therefore had no reason to get rid of him. He took that morphia, opium, or whatever it was, sure enough, and I firmly believe of his own free will. Judging from that theory, it looks decidedly like suicide; but then, again, he may have taken the morphia, not knowing it was poison. It could not have been the pills, for they only contain arsenic. He might certainly have taken morphia in order to get to sleep, as from all accounts he suffered from insomnia--nerves, I suppose. But then some portion of what he took would have been found, and if not that, then the bottle that held the drug or sleeping draught; but nothing was found, absolutely nothing. He is discovered dead from an overdose of morphia, and no traces of morphia--bottle or otherwise--are found in his room. If it was suicide, he would not have taken such precautions, seeing he had nothing to gain by concealing the mode of his death. If it was murder, some one must have administered it to him under the guise of a harmless drug; but then no one here knew him, so no one could have done so. You see, therefore, my dear Roger, from this statement of the case, that I am absolutely at a stand still." "Yes, I think you can do nothing, so your best plan is to accept the verdict of suicide, and forget all about it." "And this pill-box?" "Well, you gain nothing from that except the name of the place where the dead man bought it. If you go to the chemist you will find out his name, certainly." "And the circumstances of his life also. You forget that." "No, I don't. But such discovery will hardly account for his murder here. If you find out from your inquiries at Ironfields that the dead man had an enemy, you will have to prove how that enemy came down here and secretly poisoned him. Judging from all the evidence, there is no trace of poison left behind, no one has been staying in this inn except myself, so I really don't see how you are going to bring the crime home to any particular person." Having finished this speech, Roger arose to his feet with a yawn, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the mantelpiece. "Where are you going?" asked Fanks, stopping in his walk. "To bed, of course. I've had a long day." "You continue your walking tour to-morrow?" "Yes. I start at ten o'clock. And you?" "I am going down to Ironfields." "On a wild-goose chase." "That remains to be proved," retorted Fanks, grimly. "I'm certain of it, so your wisest plan is to accept the inevitable and give this case up," replied Axton, holding out his hand. "Good night." "Good night, old boy," said Octavius, cordially. "I'm very pleased to meet you again. By the way, don't let us lose sight of one another. My address is Scotland Yard--my Fanks address, of course. And yours?" "Temple Chambers, Fleet Street."