"Yes, sir," said the manager, civil but suspicious. "No doubt, sir. Mrs. Curtis said as you were expected this morning, but, begging your pardon, you arrived last night, sir. Mr. Gregory Curtis arrived last night just after I retired for the evening." "Impossible," said the young man, impatiently. "There is some mistake. Take me to Mrs. Curtis's room at once." The manager hesitated. "This certainly is Mr. Gregory Curtis," I said, coming forward. "He is exactly like the photograph of her son which stands on Mrs. Curtis's table, and which I have seen scores of times." The young man looked gratefully at me. And then, in a flash, as it were, we all took alarm. "Then who _did_ you take up to my mother's rooms last night?" said her son. "And who took him up?" "Not me, sir," said the hall porter promptly. "I was off duty. Clarke, the new night porter, must have took him up." "Where _is_ Clarke?" asked the manager, seizing down a key from a peg on the wall. "Gone to bed, sir. Not been gone five minutes." "Bring him to me at once. And take this gentleman and me up in the lift first." "This lady also," said Gregory, indicating me. A horrible sense of guilt was stealing over me. Why hadn't I waited to see the fragile little old woman safely into her rooms? The manager and Gregory did not speak. I dared not look at them. The lift came to a standstill, and in a moment the manager was out of it, and fitting his master key into the lock of No. 10, almost knocking over a can of hot water on the mat. The door opened, and we all went in. The room was dark, and as the manager went hastily forward to draw the curtain his foot struck against something and he drew back with an exclamation. I, who was nearest the door, turned on the electric light. Mrs. Curtis was lying with outstretched arms on her face on the floor. Her widow's cap had fallen off, revealing on the crown of the head a dark stain. Her small hands, waxen white, were spread out as if in mild deprecation. There were no rings on them. The despatch box on the dressing table had been broken open, and the jewel cases lay scattered on the floor. After a moment of stupor, Gregory and I raised the little figure and laid it on the bed. It was obvious that there was nothing to be done. As we did so the door opened and the day porter dragged in the new lift man, holding him strongly by the arm. They both looked at the dead woman on the bed. And then the lift man began to shake as with an ague, and his face became as ashen as hers. "You saw her last alive," said the manager, "and you took up the party to her room last night." The lift man was speechless. The drops stood on his forehead. He looked the image of guilt. And as we stood staring at him Aunt Pussy ambled in in her dressing-gown, with her comb in her hand, having probably left something in the room she had only yesterday vacated. Her eyes fell first on the dead body, and then on the lift man.