The inspector glanced round. “You never know with these suicides, sir,” he said in confidential tones. “Sometimes the reason’s plain enough; but often there doesn’t seem any reason for it at all. Either they’ve kept it to themselves, or else they’ve gone suddenly dotty. ‘Temporary Insanity’ is more often true than you’d say. Melancholia and such-like. The doctor may be able to help us there.” “And here he comes, if I’m not very much mistaken,” Roger observed, as the sound of approaching voices reached their ears. The next moment Jefferson reappeared, showing a tall, thin man with a small bag in his hand into the room. “This is Doctor Matthewson,” he said. The doctor and the inspector exchanged nods of acquaintance. “There’s the body, Doctor,” remarked the latter, waving his hand towards the chair. “Nothing very remarkable about the case; but of course you know the coroner will want a detailed report.” Dr. Matthewson nodded again and, setting his bag upon the table, bent over the still figure in the chair and proceeded to make his examination. It did not take him many minutes. “Been dead about eight hours,” he remarked briefly to the inspector, as he straightened up again. “Let’s see. It’s just past ten now, isn’t it? I should say he died at somewhere round two o’clock this morning. The revolver must have been within a couple of inches of his forehead when he fired. The bullet may be——” He felt carefully at the back of the dead man’s head, and, whipping a lancet out of his pocket, made an incision in the skull. “Here it is,” he added, extracting a small object of shining metal from the skin. “Lodged just under the scalp.” The inspector made a few brief notes in his pocketbook. “Obviously self-inflicted, of course?” he observed. The doctor raised the dangling hand and scrutinised the fingers that held the revolver. “Obviously. The grip is properly adjusted and must have been applied during life.” With an effort he loosened the clasp of the dead fingers and handed the weapon across the table to the inspector. The latter twirled the chamber thoughtfully before opening it. “Not fully loaded, but only one chamber fired,” he announced, and made another note. “Edges of wound blackened and traces of powder on surrounding skin,” supplied the doctor. The inspector extracted the empty shell and fitted the bullet carefully into it, comparing the latter with the bullets of the unfired cartridges. “Why do you do that?” Roger asked with interest. “You know the bullet must have been fired from that revolver.” “It’s not my job to _know_ anything, sir,” returned the inspector, a little huffily. “My job is to collect evidence.” “Oh, I wasn’t meaning that you weren’t acting perfectly correctly,” Roger said hastily. “But I’ve never seen anything of this sort before, and I was wondering why you were taking such pains to collect evidence when the cause of death is so obvious.”