“Yes,” I answered for the porter. “We’ve both had one. If you are a doctor, I wish you would look at the man in the berth across, lower ten. I’m afraid it’s too late, but I’m not experienced in such matters.” Together we opened the curtains, and the doctor, bending down, gave a comprehensive glance that took in the rolling head, the relaxed jaw, the ugly stain on the sheet. The examination needed only a moment. Death was written in the clear white of the nostrils, the colorless lips, the smoothing away of the sinister lines of the night before. With its new dignity the face was not unhandsome: the gray hair was still plentiful, the features strong and well cut. The doctor straightened himself and turned to me. “Dead for some time,” he said, running a professional finger over the stains. “These are dry and darkened, you see, and _rigor mortis_ is well established. A friend of yours?” “I don’t know him at all,” I replied. “Never saw him but once before.” “Then you don’t know if he is traveling alone?” “No, he was not—that is, I don’t know anything about him,” I corrected myself. It was my first blunder: the doctor glanced up at me quickly and then turned his attention again to the body. Like a flash there had come to me the vision of the woman with the bronze hair and the tragic face, whom I had surprised in the vestibule between the cars, somewhere in the small hours of the morning. I had acted on my first impulse—the masculine one of shielding a woman. The doctor had unfastened the coat of the striped pajamas and exposed the dead man’s chest. On the left side was a small punctured wound of insignificant size. “Very neatly done,” the doctor said with appreciation. “Couldn’t have done it better myself. Right through the intercostal space: no time even to grunt.” “Isn’t the heart around there somewhere?” I asked. The medical man turned toward me and smiled austerely. “That’s where it belongs, just under that puncture, when it isn’t gadding around in a man’s throat or his boots.” I had a new respect for the doctor, for any one indeed who could crack even a feeble joke under such circumstances, or who could run an impersonal finger over that wound and those stains. Odd how a healthy, normal man holds the medical profession in half contemptuous regard until he gets sick, or an emergency like this arises, and then turns meekly to the man who knows the ins and outs of his mortal tenement, takes his pills or his patronage, ties to him like a rudderless ship in a gale. “Suicide, is it, doctor?” I asked. He stood erect, after drawing the bed-clothing over the face, and, taking off his glasses, he wiped them slowly. “No, it is not suicide,” he announced decisively. “It is murder.”