“Yes,” replied the caller, “Rev. Elijah Judson. He’s stopping here, isn’t he?” “Yes—that is, he was, Mr.——” The clerk looked at the card. “Mr. Folsom,” he added, “but he’s—he’s gone.” “Gone! when?” “A short time ago—ah! you see, Mr. Folsom, he’s dead!” “Dead!” cried Folsom, “dead! Mr. Judson dead?” “Instantly killed, sir.” Mr. Folsom echoed these words as if he were in a dream. “What do you mean?” he whispered then; “how did it happen?” “Nobody knows, sir,” replied the clerk, “except that he pitched headforemost out of his window. He struck the sidewalk; was just outside there——” The clerk’s explanation was not heard by Mr. Folsom. “Great Heavens!” he gasped, pressing his hand to his brow; “he took me in earnest and committed suicide.” “Suicide!” It was the clerk who repeated the word, but he had not time to say more when Claymore rushed breathlessly up. He had caught the last of Folsom’s remark. “What’s that you say of suicide?” he demanded, excitedly. Folsom looked at him, blankly. “I said,” he answered, slowly, “that my old friend had committed suicide, and I fear it was some hasty, angry words of mine that drove him to it.” Claymore looked sharply at the speaker. He remembered him. That conversation on the street was not easy to forget, though Claymore had taken no part in it. Evidently, Folsom did not remember that he had ever seen Claymore before. He had spoken to the clergyman without noticing that a stranger stood near. “I think you’re wrong,” said Claymore, still looking straight at Folsom. “I wish I could think so,” responded Folsom, sadly; “but I spoke to Judson very harshly. I thought I had reason to be angry, and I guess I had, but I should not have spoken in that way. I came here just now to beg his pardon. He said at the time he should die, and I told him he’d better. Great Heaven! to think that I should have hounded him to his death!” Mr. Folsom was terribly distressed. The crowd that had gathered at the clerk’s desk listened breathlessly. “You may be entirely right,” said Claymore, quietly, “but I think not. I heard the conversation you refer to.” “You heard it?” “Yes; I was with Mr. Judson at the time.” “Ah! I didn’t see you. Then you heard his words?” “I did, and, as I say, you may be right, but I think differently.” “How can you?” asked Mr. Folsom, eagerly; “if there’s a ray of hope for a different explanation, in the name of Heaven speak up, man!” “Mr. Judson had a bitter enemy,” said Claymore. “An enemy? Do you know this?” “I heard a man threaten to kill him this morning.” For an instant Mr. Folsom was too astonished to speak. He stood with his mouth open, staring at Claymore. Then he brought his fist down on the clerk’s desk with a bang, and exclaimed: “Then, I’ll be responsible for tracking that enemy to the ends of the earth, if necessary. I’ll telegraph for Nick Carter to come. He’s in this part of the country, and I can get him here by evening, if not sooner.”