“He said,” replied the prosecuting attorney, “that Brown Hirst was a compound fracture from the sustentaculum tali to the tripod of Haller; and from the tripod of Haller to the corpus callossum, he was a simple fracture.” “Horrible,” drawled the sheriff. “And he said further,” continued the man of the law, “that the suiciding decedent was probably afflicted with some species of psychical neurosis.” “_Domine miserere!_” murmured the guardian of order. “So the travelling Æsculapius testified, and as the coroner was quite unable to spell the craft terms, he simply wrote down in the record that Doctor Leon Dupey of Cincinnati, after a careful examination, had pronounced Brown Hirst dead, which was far less prolix and entirely true.” “That coroner,” observed White Carter, “should be United States Senator from Kansas.” Huron took up the note and put it with the other papers. “I judge this to be a plain case of suicide,” he said. “I have carefully compared the writing with these letters. It is certainly Brown Hirst's writing. Still, men do not act without a motive, and I see no justifiable motive.” “Well,” said the sheriff, “I happen to know that financially the Octagon Coal Company is somewhat 'groggy.' How will that answer for a motive _ad interim?_ Or, as the sensible would say, in the meantime?” “Good,” said the prosecuting attorney. Then he took a pencil from his pocket, and wrote on the back of the decedent's letter “Suicide. Motive--business depression,” and replaced the papers in the safe. The sheriff arose. “The legend you have subscribed is probably correct,” he drawled, “but the ways of Providence are varied and mystic, and I think I shall make some observations in my own right.” Then he went out. II IT is quite plain,” said Randolph Mason, “that you have fallen into the usual blunder of the common rogue. If you had wished to rob the insurance companies, you could easily have accomplished your end without perpetrating this crime, and thus assume the hazard of discovery and criminal prosecution.” Robert Gilmore looked sharply at the counsellor. “You mean that I am seeking advice late?” “Precisely,” said Mason. “It is the characteristic error of the witless.” “Well,” observed the coal operator, “in desperate positions one usually relies on one's-self; confederates are dangerous, and usually expert advice is difficult to obtain.” Then he laughed. “I could not advertise for sealed bids on how the thing should be done. I did the best possible under the circumstances, and I rather thought that I had made a clean job of it.” “That delusion,” muttered Mason, “is common with the amateur. Indeed, it is the mark of him. This killing was useless. You could have gotten on as well without it.” The keen, gray eyes of Robert Gilmore twinkled. “I should be interested to know how?” he said.