"That's the whole trouble," Enright answered gravely. "I do not know who he was, or how he came there. All I know is, he was not Frederick Cavendish. But his being found there dead in Cavendish's apartments, and identified, puts us in an awful hole, if the rest of this affair should ever become known. Do you see? The charge would be murder, and how are we going to hold the real Cavendish alive, and not have it come out?" "The other one--the stiff--wasn't Cavendish?" "Certainly not; you know where Cavendish is." "I never saw Fred Cavendish; I wouldn't know him from Adam's off-ox. I've got the fellow Beaton turned over to me." "Well, he's the man; the dead one isn't." "How do you know?" "Because Frederick Cavendish bought and signed a round-trip ticket to Los Angeles, and boarded the midnight train. My man reported that to me, and Beaton just had time to catch the same train before it pulled out. Isn't that true, Ned?" "Yes, it is, and I never left him." "But," insisted Lacy stubbornly, "did you see the dead one?" "Yes. I kept away from the inquest, but attended the funeral to get a glance at his face. It seemed too strange to be true. The fellow wasn't Cavendish; I'd swear to that, but he did look enough like him to fool anybody who had no suspicions aroused. You see no one so much as questioned his identity--Cavendish had disappeared without a word even to his valet; this fellow, despite the wounds on his face, looking enough like him to be a twin, dressed like him, is found dead in his apartments. Dammit, it's spooky, the very thought of it." "But you saw a difference?" "Because I looked for it; I never would have otherwise. Of course what I looked at was a dead face in the coffin, a dead face that was seared and burned. But anyway, I was already convinced that he was not the man. I am not sure what I should have thought if I had met him alive upon the street." Lacy appeared amused, crossing the room, and expectorating into the open stove. "You fellows make me laugh," he said grimly. "I am hardly idiot enough to be taken in by that sort of old wives' tale. However, if that is your story stick to it--but if you were to ever tell it in court, it would take a jury about five minutes to bring in their verdict. Still I see what you're up against--the death of this fellow means that you are afraid now to leave Cavendish alive. If he ever appears again in the flesh this New York murder will have to be accounted for. Is that it?" "It leaves us in an awkward position." "All right. We understand each other then. Let's get to business. You want me to help out in a sort of accident, I presume--a fall over a cliff, or the premature discharge of blasting powder; these things are quite common out here." Neither Enright nor Beaton answered, but Lacy was in no way embarrassed by their silence. He knew now he had the whip-hand.