“First,” said Nick, “we must learn whether it was really Townsend who came here. Describe the young man you have reference to.” “Medium build,” began the clerk; “brown hair, light mustache, blue eyes, Roman nose, very fair complexion.” “That is the man,” said Maynard. “Wait,” said Nick. “How was he dressed?” “Suit of blue basket cheviot, sack coat, vest cut high, dark-brown derby hat, wing collar, blue four-in-hand tie with red threads in it, small diamond pin on the tie, long cuffs with amethyst buttons, diamond ring on the little finger of the left hand.” “That was Townsend,” said Maynard. “You ought to have been a detective,” said Nick to the clerk. “Now show us to the room to which he was taken.” “But the message which called him to the room,” suggested Maynard. “What about that? Who sent it, and from what place was it sent?” “That we may learn of the man whom he visited,” said Nick, and the three took the elevator to the third floor. The halls were well lighted, but seemed deserted, and they were alone in the elevator, with the exception of the boy operator. “The man who took the room seems to be awake,” said the clerk, pointing to the transom over the door of room 43. “There is a light inside.” The clerk knocked on the panel of the door, but there was no response. “Perhaps he is asleep,” said the clerk. “I’ll try him again.” There was no response to the second summons, and the detective took out his picklock. In a moment the door flew open. Nick stepped inside, then turned and faced Maynard in the doorway. His face was paler than usual, but there was no excitement in his manner. “Wait a moment,” he said to the young man. “Prepare yourself for a shock before you step into the room.” “Who is there?” whispered Maynard, who seemed to have lost the power of loud speech. “Is he ill?” The clerk brushed by the two men, and advanced to a table which stood at the centre of the room, and at which a figure clad only in white underclothing was half sitting, half lying, with arms resting on the top. “Ill!” cried the clerk, in a tone of horror. “The man is dead!” Maynard sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He knew only too well the form at the table. Nick turned to the clerk, and asked: “Is this the young man who was summoned to this room by a call?” “Yes,” was the hoarse reply. “But you stated that he left the hotel almost immediately.” “Some one left,” was the horrified reply, “and that some one wore the clothes I described to you. See! This young man has been stripped, and there are the clothes of the man who made the exchange!” There could be no doubt about it. The dead man at the table was Townsend. The grief of Maynard was pitiful. “If I had only taken my chances with the diamonds,” he muttered. “Poor Townsend, to come to this at last! It was all my fault, Mr. Carter. I sent him to his death!” “The diamonds!” echoed the clerk. “Does this mean robbery as well as murder?”