"I'll have him looked after," I promised. "But I fancy he'll be afraid to run away. Besides, it is possible he's telling the truth. I don't believe any woman had anything to do with either death." Godfrey turned, as he was starting away, and stopped to look at me. "Who did then?" he asked. "Nobody." "You mean they both suicided in that abnormal way?" "No, it wasn't suicide--they were killed--but not by a human being --at least, not directly." I felt that I was floundering hopelessly, and stopped. "I can't tell you now, Godfrey," I pleaded. "I haven't had time to think it out. You've got enough for one day." "Yes," he smiled; "I've got enough for one day. And now good-bye. Perhaps I'll look in on you about midnight, on my way home, if I get through by then." I sighed. Godfrey's energy became a little wearing sometimes. I was already longing for bed, and there remained so much to be done. But he, after a day which I knew had been a hard one, and with a many-column story still to write, was apparently as fresh and eager as ever. "All right," I agreed. "If you see a light, come up. If there isn't any light, I'll be in bed, and I'll kill you if you wake me." "Conditions accepted," he laughed, as I opened the door for him. Parks joined me as I turned back into the house. "I got Rogers to bed, sir," he said. "He'll be all right in the morning. But he's a queer duck." "How long have you known him, Parks?" "He's been with Mr. Vantine about five years. I don't know much about him; he's a silent kind of fellow, keeping to hisself a good deal and sort of brooding over things. But he did his work all right, except once in a while when he keeled over like he did to-night." "Parks," I said, suddenly, "I'm going to ask you a question. You know that Mr. Vantine was a friend of mine, and I thought a great deal of him. Now, what with this story Rogers tells, and one or two other things, there is talk of a woman. Is there any foundation for talk of that kind?" "No, sir," said Parks, emphatically. "I've been Mr. Vantine's valet for eight years and more, and in all that time he has never been mixed up with a woman in any shape or form. I always fancied he'd loved a lady who died--I don't know what made me think so; but anyhow, since I've known him, he never looked at a woman--not in that way." "Thank you, Parks," I said, with a sigh of relief. "I've been through so much to-day, that I felt I couldn't endure that; and now--" "Beg pardon, sir," said a voice at my elbow; "we have everything ready, sir." I turned with a start to see a little, clean-shaven man standing there, rubbing his hands softly together and gazing blandly up at me. "The undertaker's assistant, sir," explained Parks, seeing my look of astonishment. "He came while you and Mr. Godfrey were in the music-room. Dr. Hughes sent him."