“Nothing offensive, Fortune. A little childlike, perhaps. You do admire yourself, don’t you?” “Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’ When you find me feeling fascinating again, kindly murmur the name Wilton. I didn’t fascinate him. Not one little damn. He was impossible.” “You surprise me,” said Lomas gravely. “Nothing out of him at all?” “Too much, too much,” Reggie sighed. “Sullen, insolent, stupid--that was our young doctor, poor devil. It was the wicked police that did him in, a put-up job by the force, the inspector hid the diamonds in his room to spite him. Such was Dr. Horace Wilton, the common, silly criminal to the life. It means nothing, of course. The poor beggar’s dazed. Like a child kicking the naughty chair that he fell over.” “I’m not so sure,” said Lomas. “The inspector has shot himself, Fortune. We had him up here, you know, to inquire into the case. He was nervous and confused. He went back home and committed suicide.” Reggie Fortune huddled himself together in his chair. “Nothing against the man before. There’s only this question of the tobacco against him now. But it looks ugly, doesn’t it?” “We know he said the tobacco was what it isn’t. If that made him kill himself he was too conscientious for a policeman, poor beggar. Why does it look ugly, Lomas? I think it’s pitiful. My God, if we all shot ourselves when we made mistakes, there would be vacancies in the force. Poor Wilton said the inspector put the diamonds in his room. But that’s crazy.” “It’s all crazy. You are a little confused yourself, Fortune. You say it’s preposterous for the man to shoot himself merely because he made a mistake, and equally preposterous to suppose he had any other reason.” “Poor beggar, poor beggar,” Reggie murmured. “No, Lomas, I’m not confused. I’m only angry. Wilton’s not guilty and your inspector’s not guilty. And one’s in prison and one’s dead, and we call ourselves policemen. Shutting the stable door after the horse’s stolen, that’s a policeman’s job. But great heavens, we don’t even shut the door.” Lomas shook his head. “Not only angry, I fear, but rattled. My dear Fortune, what can we do?” “Witt hasn’t shown his hand?” “Not unless he had a hand in the inspector’s suicide.” “I suppose it was suicide?” “Well, you’d better look at the body. The evidence is good enough.” “Nothing in the papers?” Lomas stared at him. “Columns of course. All quite futile. You didn’t expect evidence in the papers, did you?” “You never know, you know. You don’t put a proper value on the Press, Lomas.” It has been remarked of Mr. Fortune that when he is interested he will do everything himself. This is considered by professional critics a weakness. Yet in this case of the young doctor, where he was continually occupied with details, he seems to have kept a clear head for strategy. He went to see the inspector’s body in the mortuary. He came out in gloomy thought. “Satisfied, sir?” said Superintendent Bell, who escorted him.