to upset our reservations all along the trip.” The Doctor hurried away, yet so positive had been his diagnosis, and so logical his disinclination to linger when he could be of no possible use, that we all forgave him in our minds. The Coroner gave a start at the masses of flowers, somewhat disarranged by Doctor Rogers’s manipulations, and drew nearer to the body. Farrell told him how things had been before Doctor Rogers removed the feather duster and threw out the orange and crackers. “He ought to have let them alone!” Hart declared, angrily. “It doesn’t really matter,” put in March, “I know exactly how they were lying, and anyway, Rogers says it’s a natural death.” “Natural? With all that gimcrack show!” “He says that’s the work of a mischievous child, for preference, a little girl of twelve or fourteen.” “He’s thinking of Poltergeist—he’s got that sort of thing on the brain. Let me take a look at the body.” So Doctor Hart sat on the side of the bed and made his examination of the dead millionaire. “There is every symptom of apoplexy,” he said, at last, “and no symptom of anything else. Yet, I feel a little uncertainty. We’ll have to see what the autopsy says.” “When can you have that?” Ames asked him. “Very soon. This afternoon, probably. But it is important now to make inquiries as to conditions last night. You were here, Mr. Ames?” “Yes,—that is, I am staying here, visiting, you know,—but last evening I was out to dinner, with our neighbour, Mr. Moore here.” “What time did you get home?” “Not late; about eleven, I think.” “Had Mr. Tracy gone to bed then?” “No, he was waiting up for me. We went into the smoking room and had a smoke and a chat.” “What time did you retire?” “We went upstairs about midnight, I should say. I said good night to him on this floor and then went on upstairs to my own room.” “He seemed in his usual health and spirits?” “So far as I noticed, yes.” “You heard nothing unusual in the night?” “Nothing at all.” “What was the subject of your conversation last evening?” “Nothing of serious moment. He asked me who were at the Moore party and I told him. He was lightly interested, but cared only to hear about Mrs. Dallas, who is his fiancée and who was at the party.” “And Mr. Tracy was not there?” “No. He had been invited, but—well, he had had a little tiff with the lady, and in a moment of anger had declined the invitation. He was sorry afterward and wished he had accepted it. I begged him to go in my place, I would have willingly stayed home, but he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Then I wanted to telephone Mrs. Moore, the hostess, and ask her to make room for him, too, but he wouldn’t allow that, either. So I went to the dinner, and Mrs. Dallas went, but Mr. Tracy stayed at home.” “Alone?”