“Yes, sir. The hotel people, you see, Mr. Carter, told me to take charge of the body, and I supposed it would be a kind of charity case, as, of course, the hotel people had no interest in the unfortunate man. But if Mr. Folsom was his friend, perhaps he’d like to order a better casket, don’t you see. If----” “I’ll speak to Mr. Folsom about it.” “Thank you, sir. Perhaps you’d like to look at some of my caskets and advise Mr. Folsom----” “I’ll leave that to him.” “Oh, very well, sir; but if you don’t mind speaking to him about the matter. It would be too bad to bury a clergyman in an ordinary----” By this time Nick and Patsy were out of hearing. “Say!” said Patsy, in a tone of disgust, “that fellow had gall.” Nick was silent. “The idea of asking you to pick out a casket! Huh!” When they were about halfway to the hotel, Nick remarked: “It wasn’t suicide.” “No,” responded Patsy. “I could see that. The thing that killed him was the breaking of the back of his skull on the sidewalk; but he had a black-and-blue mark over the right eye. That wasn’t made by his fall.” “Certainly not. It was made by the blow that sent him reeling through the window.” “That information will make your friend, Folsom, feel better, won’t it?” “I judge so, as his telegram told me that he feared suicide, and hoped that it was murder. “But,” added Nick. “I don’t think I shall be in a hurry to ease Folsom’s mind. We’ll wait till we have heard the whole story before letting him know what we think. It may be handy to give out the report that we believe it a case of suicide.” “I’m on,” said Patsy. They found Kerr and Folsom waiting for them in room fourteen, and they sat down at once to dinner. While they were eating, Kerr told the whole story as far as he knew it. Naturally, he mentioned Claymore’s name as the witness to Hank Low’s threats. “Who is this Claymore?” asked Nick, as he lighted a cigar at the end of the meal. “He’s a Denver business man,” replied Kerr. “I have no acquaintance with him. I believe he hasn’t been here more than a year or so.” “Less than a year, I guess,” said Folsom. “Why, do you know him?” asked Nick. “No,” replied Folsom, “except as I have talked with him this afternoon, but I remember now that his name is on the letters sent out by the oil company of which Judson was president. Claymore is the secretary of the concern, I believe.” “But you hadn’t met him before?” “No; and I didn’t hear his name till late in the day, and even then I didn’t connect him with the company, though I remember wondering a little how he knew so much about poor Judson. You see, I was terribly excited.” “No wonder.” “It worries me a great deal,” continued Folsom, “to think that my angry words might have led Judson to suicide. He meant well, I am sure of that, and he was deceived by the rascals as much as the rest of us.” “Hum!” murmured Nick; “seems to me that’s setting Claymore out in rather a black light.”