"Too late," was his comment. "He has been a sufferer from heart-disease for years. I have repeatedly warned him to avoid excitement. To-day's occurrences have brought on a fatal attack." The doctor's words proved true. Leonard never recovered consciousness, and in half an hour he was dead. For the purpose of carrying out a plan having for its object the happiness of Leonard's daughter, the wife of John Dashwood, Nick Carter took Doctor Holcomb into his confidence. To the proprietor of the sanatorium he told the whole story of the dead manufacturer's crime, and the circumstances connected therewith. "Now, doctor," said the detective, "you have been Leonard's friend, and you will agree with me, I know, that no good can result from a publication in the newspapers of the fact that he committed murder. The woman is dead. Leonard is dead. Society has received its meed of protection. The living must be considered. It would break Letty Dashwood's heart if she were to learn what you and I know. Dashwood himself must be kept in ignorance of his father-in-law's crime. Let John and his good wife live on in the belief that Leonard was what the moneyed world will believe him to have been, a man unfortunate in business, but not dishonest, not a criminal." "You are right, Mr. Carter," said Doctor Holcomb. "The truth must be suppressed as a matter of charity. You may depend on me. But--can you stop the gossip that may come from an investigation of the woman's death?" "I hope to be able to do so. The body was found a few miles below the city in a state that will likely prevent discovery of identity. The face was denuded of its flesh, and nearly all the clothing had been torn from the body. I was at the morgue when the body was brought in--I had been expecting that the find would be made--and, but for certain distinguishing marks which I was careful to notice when I met the woman in San Francisco, I should not have known whose body it was. She was almost a stranger in St. Louis, and I do not think there will be any identification." As he spoke, Nick thought of Carroll Slack, but not with uneasiness, for on his way to the morgue that morning he had met Slack, who, with suit-case in hand, was hurrying to the railway-depot to take the train for San Francisco. As for the chief of police, there was no fear that he would attempt to spoil the program. He might suspect the truth, but without evidence, without witnesses, he could do nothing. Events turned out as Nick wished. The body of the woman found in the river was not identified, and the coroner's jury returned a verdict of death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.