"Chief in yet?" he enquired of Jamieson, the secretary, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock. "No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record." Cord grinned. "I've got to get away early." Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his mail. Half-an-hour later, he leaned back languidly and unfolded his _Times_, which in his haste he had thrust unread into his pocket. "Beastly bore, this keeping up with the times," he grumbled in an aggrieved tone. "Why does the chief make us wade through all this stuff? Make us diplomats, forsooth!" He yawned and glanced down at the flaring headlines on the front page. With a little horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was suddenly pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook. "Good God!" he exclaimed. Jamieson swung about in his swivel chair. "What's up?" he enquired alertly. "Grayson!" he muttered huskily. "Gerald Grayson has committed suicide!" "Yes, so I read," remarked Jamieson cheerfully. "Supposed to be a fabulously rich old johnny, wasn't he, and turned out to be a bankrupt. Friend of yours?" he asked curiously. Van Ingen lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I--I was with him at the opera last night," he said. Jamieson whistled softly. "He was slightly indisposed and left early," continued Van Ingen, "and I thought no more about it." He rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. "I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris----" He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply. Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. "Why don't you go round by the newspaper offices?" he suggested. "There may be new developments--possibly a mistake. You note that the--the body has not been recovered?" Van Ingen's face brightened. "A fine idea! Thanks, old man." He wrung the other's hand fervently. "I'll be off at once." Out upon the pavement, he caught a passing taxi-cab. "Drive to the nearest newspaper office," he directed, "and wait for me." At the information desk inside the huge building where he preferred his request, his worst fears were realised. The note was unmistakably in Grayson's handwriting. "We verified that, of course," said the reporter who had been sent out to speak to the young man. "How?" asked Van Ingen sharply. "Through his daughter, naturally," was the calm response. "We sent a man out this morning to her aunt's house, and she recognised the handwriting at once." Van Ingen groaned. "Couldn't you have left her in peace?" he demanded.