The boy behind the counter was very busy just then, and Nick had to wait his turn, which didn’t trouble him any. “Mr. Claymore!” the boy called suddenly; “you forgot your change.” “Oh, did I?” said a man who had bought several papers and was hurrying away. He came back and reached his hand across the counter. “Keep a nickel of it for your honesty,” he said. “Thankee, Mr. Claymore.” Nick bought his paper next, and Patsy joined him. They went slowly to a corner of the waiting room and sat down. “Well?” said Nick, as he unfolded the paper and began to read about the death of Reverend Mr. Judson. “Well,” repeated Patsy, “there’s nobody hanging around now who was here when we came.” “I thought so.” Nick read for a moment, and then remarked: “That’s an honest newsboy.” “The man he spoke to was on the platform when we arrived.” “Yep.” That was all they said about it. As a matter of fact, neither of them had the slightest suspicion of Claymore, any more than they had of any of the dozen others who had stayed in sight while Kerr and Folsom were there; but they remembered his face and name, for that was a matter of habit with them. “Look it over,” said Nick, passing the paper to Patsy. While the young man read, Nick thought, and at last he said: “I think we’ll call at the undertaker’s.” The name of the undertaker who had taken charge of Judson’s body was printed in the paper, and Nick inquired the way to his place from the first policeman they met. There was a crowd of curious idlers at the door, and a man stood there, who at first was not going to let the detectives in. “We want to see the body of the clergyman who----” Nick began. “I know you do!” interrupted the man crossly, “and so does everybody else, but you can’t see?” “Can’t see, when I have eyes?” retorted Nick, with a queer smile, and he pushed by the man into the building. The man was astonished, for he had not expected this stranger to defy him, but there was something so commanding in Nick’s quiet way of doing things that he had let both detectives pass before he knew it. Then he followed them into the office, blustering. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “It’s my business to be here,” said Nick coldly. “I am a detective, and my name is Nicholas Carter.” “Oh!” exclaimed the undertaker, and his eyes bulged. He did not seem able to take them off the famous man, of whom he had heard so much. “Oh!” he added, after a pause. “If that makes a difference,” said Nick, “you may show us the body.” “Certainly; anything you want, Mr. Carter. Only too proud.” He led the way to a back room, and for a minute or two Nick and Patsy stood there studying the still, cold form. “Can I do anything more for you?” asked the undertaker, as they turned away. “No, thank you.” “I suppose you’ll see the clergyman’s friend, won’t you?” “Do you mean Mr. Folsom?”