"All that clock business seems so rotten now," went on Jimmy. "It's odd, isn't it, why farce so often seems to get mixed up with tragedy?" He was talking more or less at random, to give Ronny time to recover himself. The other moved restlessly. "I wish that doctor would come. I want to know--" "Know what?" "What he--died of." Jimmy pursed up his lips. "Heart?" he hazarded. Ronny gave a short, scornful laugh. "I say, Ronny," said Jimmy. "Well?" Jimmy found a difficulty in going on. "You don't mean--you aren't thinking--I mean, you haven't got it into your head that--that, well, I mean he wasn't biffed on the head or anything? Tredwell's locking the door and all that." It seemed to Jimmy that his words deserved an answer, but Ronny continued to stare straight out in front of him. Jimmy shook his head and relapsed into silence. He didn't see that there was anything to do except just wait. So he waited. It was Tredwell who disturbed them. "The doctor would like to see you two gentlemen in the library, if you please, sir." Ronny sprang up. Jimmy followed him. Dr. Cartwright was a thin, energetic young man with a clever face. He greeted them with a brief nod. Pongo, looking more serious and spectacled than ever, performed introductions. "I understand you were a great friend of Mr. Wade's," the doctor said to Ronny. "His greatest friend." "H'm. Well, this business seems straightforward enough. Sad, though. He looked a healthy young chap. Do you know if he was in the habit of taking stuff to make him sleep?" "Make him _sleep_?" Ronny stared. "He always slept like a top." "You never heard him complain of sleeplessness?" "Never." "Well, the facts are simple enough. There'll have to be an inquest, I'm afraid, nevertheless." "How did he die?" "There's not much doubt; I should say an overdose of chloral. The stuff was by his bed. And a bottle and glass. Very sad, these things are." It was Jimmy who asked the question which he felt was trembling on his friend's lips, and yet which the other could somehow or other not get out. "There's no question of--foul play?" The doctor looked at him sharply. "Why do you say that? Any cause to suspect it, eh?" Jimmy looked at Ronny. If Ronny knew anything, now was the time to speak. But to his astonishment Ronny shook his head. "No cause whatever," he said clearly. "And suicide--eh?" "Certainly not." Ronny was emphatic. The doctor was not so clearly convinced. "No troubles that you know of? Money troubles? A woman?" Again Ronny shook his head. "Now about his relations. They must be notified." "He's got a sister--a half-sister rather. Lives at Deane Priory. About twenty miles from here. When he wasn't in town Gerry lived with her." "H'm," said the doctor. "Well, she must be told." "I'll go," said Ronny. "It's a rotten job, but somebody's got to do it." He looked at Jimmy. "You know her, don't you?" "Slightly. I've danced with her once or twice."