So this was Will Simmons! Well, if the face is any index to the character--which in nine cases out of ten it isn't--then Mr. Naylor-Brent's confidence had certainly not been misplaced. A fine, clean, rugged face this, with set lips, a face that would never fail a friend, and never forgive an enemy. Young Wilson, who had stepped up beside Cleek, shivered suddenly as he looked down at the body, and closed his eyes. Mr. Brent's voice broke the silence that the sight of death so often brings. "I think," he said, quietly, "if you don't mind, gentlemen, I'll get back to my office. There are important matters at stake just now, so if you'll excuse me--it's near closing time, you know, and there are many important matters to see to. Wilson, you stay here with these gentlemen, and render any assistance that you can. Show them round if they wish it. You need not resume work to-day. Anything which you wish to know, please call upon me. "Thanks. We'll remember." Cleek bowed ceremoniously as the manager retreated. "But no doubt Mr. Wilson here will give us all the assistance we require, Mr. Brent. We'll make an examination of the body first, and let you know the verdict!" The door closed on Mr. Brent's figure, and Cleek and Mr. Narkom and young Wilson were alone with the dead. Cleek went down upon his knees before the still figure, and examined it from end to end. The clenched hands were put to the keenest scrutiny, but he passed no comment, only glancing now and again from those same hands to the figure of the young cashier who stood trembling beside him. "H'm, convulsions," he finally said, softly, to himself, and Mr. Narkom watched his face with intense eagerness. "Might be aconite--but how administered?" Again he stood silent, his brain moving swiftly down an avenue of thought, and if the thoughts could have been seen, they would have shown something like this: Convulsions--writhing--twisting--tied up in knots of pain--a _rope_. Suddenly he wheeled swiftly upon Wilson, his face a mask for his emotions. "Look here," he said, sternly, "I want you to tell me the exact truth, Mr. Wilson. It's the wisest way when dealing with the police, you know. Are you positively certain Simmons said nothing as to the cause of his death? What exactly were his last words to you?" "I begged him to tell me who it was who had injured him," replied Wilson in a shaking voice, "but all he could say was, 'The rope--mind the rope--the rope of fear--the rope of fear,' and then he was gone. But there was no sign of a rope, Mr. Headland, and I can't imagine what the--dear--old--man was driving at. And now to think he is dead--dead----" His voice broke, and was silent for a moment. Once again Cleek spoke: "And you saw nothing, heard nothing?" "Well--I hardly know. There was a sound--a faint whisper, reedlike and thin, almost like a long-drawn sigh. I really thought I must have imagined it, and when I listened again it had gone. After that I rushed to the safe and----"