When this was done, the Chief Inspector unobtrusively picked up a wax vesta which had tumbled out from the wardrobe while the huddled figure inside was lifted on to the bed. “Good God!” The manager stared at the placid young face bent stiffly to one side: “it's the young fellow himself—Eames—who took this room hardly a week ago. Why, I had a telephone message from him at five o'clock saying that he was going out of town for the week-end.” “And now it's nine-thirty. Humph! You can positively identify him?” “Positively.” The Chief Inspector took a letter which one of his men had just found in the dead man's coat pocket. He examined it closely before holding it out to the manager. “It's for you, sir.” The manager started back, and turned a little pale. He did not seem to care for the task of opening it, but after a moment's hesitation he ripped the envelope and read in a low voice: “Enterprise Hotel, Aug. 4th. Sir, Enclosed please find £10 to pay for my bill, and the cheapest funeral possible. It may save time and trouble to know that I have just taken an overdose of morphia, after 'phoning to you to let my room stay as it is until Monday. I am now about to fasten myself into my temporary coffin. I have nothing left to live for. I only regret on your behalf that chance has made your hotel my stepping-off plank. For both our sakes do your best to keep the matter quiet. Faithfully yours, Reginald Eames.” “Suicide!” The manager's voice sounded almost triumphant. Mr. Beale said nothing. With his hands in his pockets he stood staring down at the quiet figure. “You recognise him too, sir?” Pointer appeared to have eyes in the back of his head, for he stood with his face turned away from the American, still scrutinising the dead man's letter. Mr. Beale's small, piercing eyes, which gleamed like mica behind the circles of his horn pince-nez, went dull. “No, Chief, no. I'm a stranger to this wicked little village of yours. I was just wondering what it is that makes young men throw away their lives so easily for the first pretty face that comes along. I suppose there'll be a girl at the bottom of this case, too.” He turned away. “Any objection to a cigar all round?” “Not unless they're lit,” and the Chief Inspector accepted one, too. The manager came out of his abstraction. He had been wondering, among other things, how to give the news of the occurrence to the Press in its least interesting form. “Perhaps you could leave taking him away till one o'clock?” “Very good, sir. You'll find that we try to be as little in the way as possible. Did he have anything in your safe?” “No, nothing.” “Now, gentlemen, if you'll both step into another room, I'll join you later to hear any further particulars you can give me. First, sir, kindly point out anything that is yours.”