I looked at Bert Garrison, who was perhaps the most favored of Miss Van Allen's friends, but he shook his head, so I threw myself into the breach. "Inspector," I said, "that man's name is Somers. Further than that I know nothing. He is a stranger to all of us, and he came to this house to-night for the first time in his life." "How'd he happen to come? Friend of Miss Van Allen?" "He met her to-night for the first time. He came here with--" I paused. It was so hard to know what to do. Steele had gone home, ought I to implicate him? "Go on--came here with whom? The truth, now." "I usually speak the truth" I returned, shortly. "He came with Mr. Norman Steele." "Where is Mr. Steele?" "He has gone. There were a great many people here, and, naturally, some of them went away when this tragedy was discovered." "Humph! Then, of course, the guilty party escaped. But we are getting nowhere. Does nobody know anything of this man, but his name?" Nobody did; but Ariadne piped up, "He was a delightful man. He told me he was a great patron of art, and often bought pictures." Paying little heed to her, the inspector was endeavoring to learn from the dead man's property something more about him. "No letters or papers," he said, disappointedly, as he turned out the pockets. "Not unusual--in evening togs--but not even a card or anything personal--looks queer--" "Look in his watch," said Ariadne, bridling with importance. Giving her a keen glance, the inspector followed her suggestion. In the back of the case was a picture of a coquettish face, undoubtedly that of an actress. It was not carefully fastened in, but roughly cut out and pressed in with ragged edges. "Temporary," grunted the inspector, "and recently stuck in. Some chicken he took out to supper. He's a club man, you say?" "Yes, Mr. Steele said so, and also vouched for his worth and character." I resented the inspector's attitude. Though I knew nothing of Somers, and didn't altogether like him, yet, I saw no reason to think ill of the dead, until circumstances warranted it. Further search brought a thick roll of money, some loose silver, a key-ring with seven or eight keys, eyeglasses in a silver case, handkerchiefs, a gold pencil, a knife, and such trifles as any man might have in his pockets, but no directly identifying piece of property. R. S. was embroidered in tiny white letters on the handkerchiefs, and a monogram R. S. was on his seal ring. His jewelry, which was costly, the inspector did not touch. There were magnificent pearl studs, a watch fob, set with a black opal and pearl cufflinks. Examination of his hat showed the pierced letters R. S., but nothing gave clue to his Christian name. "Somers," said the inspector, musingly. "What club does he belong to?" "I don't know," I replied. "Mr. Steele belongs to several, but Mr. Somers does not belong to any that I do. At least, I've never seen him at any." "Call in the servants. Let's find out something about this household."