Information was taken to the hotel office at once, and the clerk went out, and he immediately identified the body as that of a guest of the house, Reverend Elijah Judson. CHAPTER II. WAITING FOR NICK CARTER. In the first horror of this discovery nobody thought of murder. It was taken for granted that the unfortunate clergyman had been leaning from his window and lost his balance. But it was not long, however, before men began to look at the thing in another way. The minister’s body was left on the walk under guard of policemen until an undertaker came to take it away. Up to that time no friend of the dead man had appeared. The clerk had been so shocked that he could not remember whom he had seen with Mr. Judson. At last the clerk recalled that Judson had been with Claymore early in the morning, and that the two had dined together in the hotel restaurant at noon. Accordingly, a messenger was sent to the oil company’s office to inform Claymore of what had happened. It was while the messenger was gone on this errand that a man went into the hotel and laid his card on the clerk’s desk. “Send it up to Mr. Judson, please,” he said. “Mr. Judson!” gasped the clerk, looking first at the man and then at his card. “Yes,” replied the caller, “Reverend Elijah Judson. He’s stopping here, isn’t he?” “Yes--that is, he was, Mr. ----” The clerk looked at the card. “Mr. Folsom,” he added, “but he’s--he’s gone.” “Gone! When?” “A short time ago--ah! you see, Mr. Folsom, he’s dead!” “Dead!” cried Folsom; “dead! Mr. Judson dead?” “Instantly killed, sir.” Mr. Folsom echoed these words as if he were in a dream. “What do you mean?” he whispered then; “how did it happen?” “Nobody knows, sir,” replied the clerk, “except that he pitched headforemost out of his window. He struck the sidewalk; it was just outside there----” The clerk’s explanation was not heard by Mr. Folsom. “Heavens above!” he gasped, pressing his hand to his brow; “he took me in earnest, and committed suicide.” “Suicide!” It was the clerk who repeated the word, but he had not time to say more when Claymore rushed breathlessly up. He had caught the last of Folsom’s remark. “What’s that you say of suicide?” he demanded excitedly. Folsom looked at him blankly. “I said,” he answered slowly, “that my old friend had committed suicide, and I fear it was some hasty, angry words of mine that drove him to it.” Claymore looked sharply at the speaker, and recalled his face. That conversation on the street was not easy to forget, though Claymore had taken no part in it. Evidently Folsom did not remember that he had ever seen Claymore before. He had spoken to the clergyman without noticing that a stranger stood near. “I think you’re wrong,” said Claymore, still looking straight at Folsom.