Although, as he had just said, it hardly looked like the sort of cigarette a woman might be expected to smoke, he was thorough enough to look about the room, and he even went to the dressing table in search of any proof that Helen Gilmore herself had been addicted to a little puffing now and then. But there was no telltale flickings of ashes, not so much as an ash receiver. Wiggly compressed his lips. "You know, doctor," he said slowly, "this cigarette thing bothers me a little--quite a little, too. She isn't a smoker unless she does it on the sly and----Oh, confound it, it just isn't reasonable that this is Sarbella's cigarette butt. I've got a hunch that this business runs deeper than we think." Doctor Bushnell gave an impatient gesture. "Stuff! You're trying to manufacture a mystery; the papers like mysteries so that they can spread the story out over days and days. You're afraid that the solution is going to be too easy, too tame." "Tame?" exploded Wiggly Price. "I can imagine nothing more dramatic than Sarbella being the guilty man--beautiful vamp, handsome, talented young foreigner, related to nobility, a suicide, a brother's vendetta, an unexpected meeting, arranged by Fate, at the home of a friend who is a popular novelist, and then--revenge! "Good Lord, I hope you don't call a yarn like that tame! Scoggins, my city editor, will weep with joy if it pans out that way--and probably give me a raise in salary, although it's his burning desire to fire me. But I'm making the guess that the cigarette butt that we've picked up out of the rug didn't belong to Victor Sarbella." He paused, looking about the room again. "Electric lights are so tricky to the eyes; it's so easy to overlook something, some little thing that might be tremendously important. It still lacks some time of being daylight, and I'm anxious to scoot over to the jail and check up on this cigarette clew--make sure whether or not it's Sarbella's. Are you going to remain here for a little while, doctor?" Doctor Bushnell glanced at his watch. "Yes," he answered; "at least until the undertaker arrives--probably later. It's my official duty to remain, I suppose." "Your official duty?" "As it happens, I am a deputy coroner." Wiggly showed his surprise. "You hadn't mentioned that; I hardly think that even the constable realized it. Of course you understand, doctor, that, in a case like this, your authority exceeds that of any other official. You are the commanding officer, so to speak." Doctor Bushnell nodded. "In a way my position is somewhat embarrassing. I have been the Gilmore family physician for a good many years." "I was wondering if I should be able to get inside the house again," said the reporter; "but, if you are the----" "Deputy coroner," corrected the physician. "Doctor Whitestone, the coroner, is vacationing at Saranac Lake." "Anyhow, doctor, you are in charge, and all I need is your permission."