“Those locked rooms bore me,” said Morton, “I’ve read lots of detective stories founded on that plot. Invariably the locked room proves to be vulnerable at some point. I haven’t finished examining the doors and windows myself as yet.” “Proceed with your examinations, then,” said Lockwood; “if you can find a secret or concealed entrance, it’s more than I can do.” “More than you will do, perhaps, but not necessarily more than you can do.” “Don’t forget that vanished Japanese,” prompted Marsh. “I’ve small faith in Orientals, and if there is a way to get in and out secretly, I’d question the Jap before I would Mr. Lockwood here.” “So should I,” declared the impassive secretary himself. “And another thing don’t forget, Morton, after the Private Secretary, the next person to be suspected is the butler—that is in fiction, which I gather you take as your manual of procedure.” Lockwood’s sarcasm drove Morton frantic, but he was too wise to show his annoyance. “I shall neglect no possible suspect,” he said, with dignity. And then two men came from the police, who said they were photographers and desired to take some pictures, at the Chief’s orders. Lockwood left them, and went to the living-room where the household and a few neighbors were assembled. “I’m glad to get out of that detective atmosphere,” he said, relaxing in an easy chair. “It’s bad enough to have the man dead, without seeing and hearing those cold-blooded police bungling over their ‘clues’ and ‘evidences.’” “Tell me a little of the circumstances,” asked Mrs. Bates, who was present. “I can bear it from you, Gordon, and I must know.” “Apparently, Doctor Waring was sitting at his desk, reading,” Lockwood began, with a faraway look, as if trying to reconstruct the scene. “He must have been reading Martial—for the volume was open on the desk—and the pages were blood-stained.” Mrs. Bates gave a little cry, and shuddered, but Lockwood went unmovably on. “There were other books about, some open, some closed, but Martial was nearest his hand—quite as if he were reading up to the last moment.” “When the murderer came!” Mrs. Bates breathed softly, her eyes wide with horror. “It couldn’t have been murder,” Lockwood said, in a positive way, “you see, Mrs. Bates, it just couldn’t have been. That Morton detective is trying to trump up a way the assassin could have entered that locked room—but he can’t find any way. I know he can’t. So it must have been suicide. Much as we dislike to admit it, it is the only possible theory.” “But they say there was robbery,” Mrs. Peyton put in. “The ruby pin is gone and the money from the drawer.” “But, perhaps,” Gordon said, “they were taken by a robber who did not also murder his victim. Nogi, now—” “Of course!” cried Helen Peyton, quickly; “I see it! I never could abide Nogi, with his stealthy ways. He stole the things, and then he ran away, and later, Doctor Waring killed himself!” “Because of the robbery!” exclaimed Emily Bates.