I sat ruminating. The sudden deaths of the two pillars of finance was, to say the least, a curious coincidence. I recollected that Chamartin had been associated with De Gex, and the object of the latter's journey to Madrid had apparently been to interview his dead friend's widow. I also remembered Professor Vega's description of the deadly effect of that secret poison orosin--that it might cause almost instant death, and that all doctors would attribute the cause to heart failure. This caused me to ponder for a long time. I read and re-read the report of the Baron's death, and when I retired to bed--Harry not having yet returned--I could not sleep, so haunted was I by vague suspicions. Next day I found that I could not apply myself to work at the office, so gave it up and once more wandered towards Hyde Park Corner and up Park Lane where again I passed through Stretton Street. The blinds of the big dark mansion were all lowered, indicating that its owner was still out of town. Yet I knew that he was living in the half darkness of that closed house. Why? Several days passed when, unable to rest, I at last asked leave of absence from old Mr. Francis, and crossed by the night-boat from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. On the following day I found myself in quaint old Amsterdam, that city built upon the sand in defiance of a certain text in St. Matthew, the city with its great network of canals, and its many gaudily-painted barges. As I left my hotel and walked to the Dam, the central square of the city, my nostrils were saluted upon one side by the perfume of the flowers adorning the windows and the odour of cook-shops, while on the other was the smell of tar and the fumes of the humble kitchens of sailing vessels. I happened to know an Englishman employed as clerk to a firm of Dutch forwarding agents whose offices were in the Dam, and this man, whose name was Graham, I at once sought. We went out to a café together, and I explained the object of my visit, namely, the investigation of the death of Baron van Veltrup. Graham at once regarded me with considerable astonishment, for very naturally he could not make out why I should take such a keen interest in the death of one of the richest men in Holland. "The Baron died of heart failure," my friend said. "The doctors are agreed upon that. His valet told some extraordinary story, but no credence has been placed in it. There has been a good deal in the papers concerning the unfortunate affair, but the excitement has now all died down. The Baron was, I believe, buried yesterday." "I know that there is no suspicion that death was due to foul play, Graham," I said. "But I confess that in face of certain knowledge I possess I am not altogether satisfied with the doctor's conclusion." My friend smiled incredulously. "At first, the police were, I heard, inclined to suspect foul play. But after full investigation they are now quite satisfied as to the cause of death."