“Why does anyone do it?” asked Jefferson, staring at the still figure as if trying to read its secret. “Because he has some damned good reason of his own, I suppose.” Roger shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. “No doubt. But old Stanworth of all people! I shouldn’t have thought that he’d got a care in the world. Not that I knew him particularly well, of course; but I was only saying to you yesterday, Alec——” He broke off suddenly. Alec’s face had gone a ghastly white, and he was gazing with horrified eyes at the figure in the chair. “I was forgetting,” Roger muttered in a low voice to Jefferson. “The boy was too young to be in the war; he’s only twenty-four. It’s a bit of a shock, one’s first corpse. Especially this sort of thing. Phew! There’s a smell of death in here. Let’s get some of these windows open.” He turned and threw open the French windows, letting a draught of warm air into the room. “Locked on the inside all right,” he commented as he did so. “So are the other two. Here, Alec, come outside for a minute. It’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit turned up.” Alec smiled faintly; he had managed to pull himself together and the colour was returning to his cheeks. “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, a little shakily. “It was just a bit of a shock at first.” The breeze had fluttered the papers on the writing table and one fell to the ground. Graves, the butler, stepped forward to pick it up. Before replacing it he glanced idly at something that was written on it. “Sir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Look at this!” He handed the paper to Major Jefferson, who read it eagerly. “Anything of interest?” Roger asked curiously. “Very much so,” Jefferson replied dryly. “It’s a statement. I’ll read it to you. ‘To Whom it May Concern. For reasons that concern only myself, I have decided to kill myself.’ And his signature at the bottom.” He twisted the piece of paper thoughtfully in his hand. “But I wish he’d said what his reasons were,” he added in puzzled tones. “Yes, it’s a remarkably reticent document,” Roger agreed. “But it’s plain enough, isn’t it? May I have a look at it?” He took it from the other’s outstretched hand and examined it with interest. The paper was slightly creased, and the message itself was typewritten. The signature, Victor Stanworth, was bold and firm; but just above it was another attempt, which had only got as far as V-i-c and looked as if it had been written with a pen insufficiently supplied with ink. “He must have gone about the business with extraordinary deliberation,” Roger commented. “He goes to the trouble of typing this instead of writing it; and when he finds he hadn’t dipped his pen deep enough in the ink-pot, calmly signs it again. And just look at that signature! Not a trace of nerves in it, is there?” He handed the paper back, and the Major looked at it again. “Stanworth was never much troubled with nerves,” he remarked shortly. “And the signature’s genuine enough. I’d take my oath on that.”