Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious. The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed in a moment or two. They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery was solved. “Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone, thoughtfully. “He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not have taken his life at that time.” “There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.” Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more than anything else in life, but he said: “Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up. “But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and—” “The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!” “Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring, about two inches across. It’s gone now.” “Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning—or perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.” “He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.” “In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it must have been that.” The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police. The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement. He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.