The housekeeper had gone to the front door again, and by the time we reached the living room was ushering the man into our presence. He was the tallest man of his race I have seen, with a well-developed body and a very lean face. He was wearing a white silk suit, and as he came across the room to our side, bore himself with easy grace. His cold black eyes swept over the three of us, and then in the most perfect English and in a very cultured voice he asked: “And which is Mr. Carter?” Carter replied, and the man half smiled—a smile which lit up his yellow face. Then he said: “No doubt you do not know me, Mr. Carter, but you have been pointed out to me in Washington. My name is Lee Kong, and I have at times been connected with our London Embassy.” The English was perfect, and there was no doubt he was one of those well-educated Chinamen which one meets so often in the various capitals of the world. His general air was that of breeding and of culture, and one could feel back of it all the many thousand years of racial blood. Carter introduced us and motioned to a chair. After seating himself the man said: “I saw your name in the paper, Mr. Carter. And I thought that perhaps you might be the best man to whom to tell my story.” Carter took his cigar case and offered it to him, but he begged to be excused. Taking a gold case from his pocket, he lighted a long, straw-colored cigarette and leaned back in his chair. His shrewd eyes took us all in, and then with a little laugh he leaned forward to say: “Perhaps I had better tell you just who I am. I have been connected with both our London and Washington Embassies. I knew Dr. Warren very well. It is in regard to my visit to his house yesterday that I wish to speak. You know, of course, I was there.” I was rather surprised at the cool manner in which the oriental admitted he was the man the housekeeper had seen. Carter replied he knew some one of his race had been there, but that was all. Over the yellow face came a half smile, and then the words: “Yes, I was the man. I knew inquiries would be made, and thought I had better tell my story to some one who could understand. I have been staying at Cooperstown. When I read in the papers about the inquest, I saw your name, and I decided you were the person to see.” There was an air of sureness about the man which was annoying. That the police were very keen to question him did not seem to enter his head, or if it did, he was not interested. I believed he was the last and, for that matter, the only person who had seen Warren around the time of his death. As I looked at the impassive, yellow face, with the cold, black eyes, I wondered if he held the solution of the mystery. As if reading my thoughts, his suave glance met mine, and he said: “I can assure you I did not kill Mr. Warren. He was dead when I went into his library.”