“With your signature on my certificate?” inquired the scientist, unmoved. “I won’t trouble you so far, Doctor Breed. I thank you.” Outside in the street, Lawyer Bain turned to his client. “You didn’t look at the Jane Doe paper at all.” “No. I’m not so interested in that as in the other.” “Something queer about this Blair death?” “Why, the fact that the attending physician and the certificating officer are one and the same, that there doesn’t appear to be any real cause of death given, or any undertaker, and that the interment is too private for Breed even to speak of with equanimity, might seem so, to a man looking for trouble.” “Not another murder?” said the lawyer. One side of Chester Kent’s face smiled. “No,” said he positively, “certainly not that.” “There has been a lot of scandal about young Blair, I’m told. Perhaps they’re burying him as quietly as possible just to keep out of the papers.” “I shouldn’t consider his method of burial likely to prove particularly quiet,” returned Kent. “Of course I may be wrong; but I think not. The most private way to get buried is in public.” “Well, if a death was crooked I’d want no better man than Breed to help cover it. By the way, the sheriff has been away since yesterday afternoon on some business that he kept to himself.” “That also may mean something,” remarked Kent thoughtfully. “Now, if you’ll find out about that newspaper matter, I’ll go on over to Sedgwick’s. You can get me there by telephone.” In the studio Kent found Sedgwick walking up and down with his hands behind his back and his head forward. “Why the caged lion effect?” inquired the scientist. “Some one has been having a little fun with me,” growled Sedgwick. “Apparently it was one-sided. What’s this on the easel?” “What would you take it to be?” “Let’s have a closer look.” Walking across the room Kent planted himself in front of the drawing-board, upon which had been fixed, by means of thumb-tacks, a square of rather soft white paper, exhibiting evidence of having been crumpled up and subsequently smoothed out. On the paper was a three-quarter drawing of a woman’s head, the delicate face beneath waves of short curly hair, turned a little from the left shoulder, which was barely indicated. Setting his useful monocle in his eye, Kent examined the work carefully. “I should take it,” he pronounced at length, “to be a sort of a second-hand attempt at a portrait.” “You recognize it, though?” “It bears a resemblance to the face of the corpse at Lonesome Cove.” “Pretty good likeness, for a thing done from memory, I think.” “Memory? Whose memory?” “Well—mine, for instance.” “Oh, no. That won’t do, you know. It isn’t your style of drawing at all.” “Setting up for an art critic, are we?” “Aside from which you certainly wouldn’t be using this sort of paper, when you’ve cardboard to your hand.” “So you’re not to be caught, I see,” said Sedgwick, with a nervous laugh.