"I trust you are not disappointed. What do you know about last night's affair?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"I presume that you, too, have been out for a stroll this morning?"

"Yes, I have. I cashed a check at the American Express Office."

"You were supposed to carry only Nomad checks," put in Doctor Lofton, his business sense coming to the fore.

"I had a few of the others," Keane replied. "Is there any law against that?"

"The matter was mentioned in our agreement -" began Lofton, but Duff cut him off.

"There remains only the gentleman in the corner," said the detective. He nodded toward a tall man in a tweed suit. This member of the party had a heavy walking-stick, and one leg was stiff in front of him. "What is your name, sir?" Duff added.

"John Ross," the other replied. "I'm a lumber man from Tacoma, Washington. Been looking forward to this trip for years, but I never dreamed it would be anything like this. My life's an open book, Inspector. Give the word, and I'll read aloud any page you select."

"Scotch, I believe?" Duff suggested.

"Does the burr still linger?" Ross smiled. "It shouldn't - Lord knows I've been in America long enough. I see you're looking at my foot, and since we're all explaining our scars and our weaknesses, I'll tell you that when I was down in the redwoods some months ago, I was foolish enough to let a tree fall on my right leg. Broke a lot of bones, and they haven't knitted as they should."

"That's a pity. Know anything about this murder?"

"Not a thing, Inspector. Sorry I can't help you. Nice old fellow, this Drake. I got pretty well acquainted with him on the ship - he and I both had rather good stomachs. I liked him a lot."

"I imagine that you, too -"

Ross nodded. "Yes - I went for a walk this morning. Fog and all. Interesting little town you've got here, Inspector. Ought to be out on the Pacific Coast."

"Wish we could bring the coast here," Duff replied. "Climate especially."

Ross sat up with interest. "You've been there, Inspector?"

"Briefly - a few years ago."

"What did you think of us?" the lumber man demanded.

Duff laughed, and shook his head. "Ask me some other time," he said. "I've more pressing matters to occupy me now." He stood up. "You will all wait here just for a moment," he added, and went out.

Fenwick went over to Doctor Lofton. "See here - you've got to give us our money back on this tour," he began, glaring through his thick gla.s.ses.

"Why so?" inquired Lofton suavely.

"Do you suppose we're going on after this?"

"The tour is going on," Lofton told him. "Whether you go or not rests with you. I have been making this trip for many years, and death is not altogether an unknown occurrence among the members of my parties. That it happens to be a murder in this case in no way alters my plans. We shall be delayed for a time in London but that is, of course, an act of G.o.d. Read your contract with me, Mr. Fenwick. Not responsible for acts of G.o.d. I shall get the party around the world in due course, and if you choose to drop out, there will be no rebate."

"An outrage," Fenwick cried. He turned to the others. "We'll get together. We'll take it up with the Emba.s.sy." But no one seemed to be in a mood to match his.

Duff returned, and with him came Eben, the night-watchman.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the inspector began, "I have asked this man to look you over and see if he can identify a certain person who, at two o'clock last night, was a trifle confused as to the whereabouts of his room. A person who, in point of fact, was wandering about the floor on which the murder took place."

He turned to Eben, who was grimly studying the faces of the men in that old-fashioned parlor. The servant stared at Lofton, then at Honywood, at Ross, the lumber man, and at Vivian, the polo player. He gave the weak face of Fenwick but a fleeting glance.

"That's him," said Eben firmly, pointing at Captain Ronald Keane.

Keane sat up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's you I met on my two o'clock round. You told me you'd got on to that floor by mistake, thinking it was your own."

"Is this true?" Duff asked sternly.

"Why -" Keane looked anxiously about him. "Why, yes - I was up there. You see, I couldn't sleep, and I wanted a book to read."

"That's pretty old - that wanted-a-book-to-read stuff," the detective reminded him.

"I fancy it is," returned Keane with a sudden show of spirit. "But it happens occasionally - among literate people I mean. I knew Tait had a lot of books - that young fellow reads to him until late at night. I found it out on the boat. I knew, too, that he was on the third floor, though I wasn't sure of the room. I just thought I'd go up there and listen outside the doors, and if I heard any one reading, I'd go in and borrow something. Well, I didn't hear a thing, so I decided it was too late. When I met this watchman here, I was on my way back to the floor below."

"Why the statement about being confused as to the location of your room?" Duff wanted to know.

"Well, I couldn't very well take up the subject of my literary needs with a servant. He wouldn't have been interested. I just said the first thing that came into my head."

"Rather a habit with you, I judge," Duff remarked. He stood for a moment staring at Keane. A mean face, a face that he somehow didn't care for at all, and yet he had to admit that this explanation sounded plausible enough. But he resolved to keep an eye on this man. A sly wary sort, and the truth was not in him.

"Very good," the detective said. "Thank you, Eben. You may go now." He thought of Hayley, still searching above. "You will all remain here until I release you," he added, and ignoring a chorus of protest, walked briskly over and stepped into the smaller parlor.

As he closed the connecting door behind him, he saw Patrick Tait sitting erect on the couch, a gla.s.s of spirits in his hand. Kennaway was hovering solicitously about.

"Ah, Mr. Tait," Duff remarked. "I am happy to see you are better."

The old man nodded his head. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all." The booming voice was a feeble murmur now. "I am subject to these spells - that is why I have this boy with me. He will take good care of me, I'm sure. A little too much excitement, perhaps. Murder, you know - I hardly bargained for that."

"No, of course not," the inspector agreed, and sat down. "If you're quite well enough now, sir -"

"Just a moment." Tait held up his hand. "You will pardon my curiosity, I'm sure. But I still don't know who was killed, Mr. Duff."

The detective gave him a searching look. "You're sure you are strong enough -"

"Nonsense," Tait answered. "It means nothing to me, one way or the other. To whom did this appalling thing happen?"

"It happened to Mr. Hugh Morris Drake, of Detroit," said Duff.

Tait bowed his head, and was silent for a moment. "I knew him, very slightly, for many years," he remarked at last. "A man of unsullied past, Inspector, and with the most humanitarian impulses. Why should any one want to remove him? You are faced by an interesting problem."

"And a difficult one," Duff added. "I should like to discuss it with you for a moment. You occupy, I believe, room 30, which is near the spot where the unfortunate affair occurred. At what time did you retire for the night?"

Tait looked at the boy. "About twelve, wasn't it, Mark?"

Kennaway nodded. "Or a few minutes after, perhaps. You see, Inspector, I go to Mr. Tait's room every evening and read him to sleep. Last night I began to read at ten, and at a few minutes past twelve he was sleeping soundly. So I slipped out, and went to my own room on the second floor."

"What do you read, mostly?" asked Duff, interested.

"Mystery stories," Kennaway smiled.

"To a man with a bad heart? I should think the excitement -"

"Bah," put in Tait. "There's little enough excitement in the things. I have been a criminal lawyer for many years back home, and as far as the word murder goes -" He stopped suddenly.

"You were about to say," suggested Duff gently, "that murder is not, where you are concerned, an exciting topic."

"What if I was?" demanded Tait, rather warmly.

"I was only wondering," continued Duff, "why this particular murder brought on such a serious spell this morning?"

"Oh, well - meeting it in one's own life is quite different from reading about it in books. Or even from talking about it in a courtroom."

"Quite, quite," agreed Duff. He was silent, drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. Suddenly he turned, and with the speed and precision of a machine-gun began to fire questions at the lawyer.

"You heard nothing on that third floor last night?"

"Nothing."

"No outcry? No call for help?"

"Nothing, I tell you."

"No scream from an old man brutally attacked?"

"I have told you, sir -"

"I am asking you, Mr. Tait. I meet you in the hallway, and you appear to be strong and well. You have heard rumors of a murder, but you do not know who was killed. You walk with a firm step to the doorway of the parlor. You glance around the faces inside, and in another moment you are on the floor, in what seems a mortal attack."

"They come like that -"

"Do they? Or did you see some one in that room -"

"No! No!"

"Some face, perhaps -"

"I tell you, no!"

The old man's eyes were blazing, the hand that held the gla.s.s trembled. Kennaway came forward.

"Inspector, I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "You are going too far. This man is ill -"

"I know," admitted Duff softly. "I'm sorry. I was wrong, and I apologize. I forgot, you see - I have my job to do, and I forgot." He arose. "None the less, Mr. Tait," he added, "I think that some surprising situation dawned upon you as you stood in that doorway this morning, and I intend to find out what it was."

"It is your privilege to think anything you please, sir," replied the old man, and as Duff went out he carried a picture of the great criminal lawyer, gray of face and breathing heavily, sitting on a Victorian sofa and defying Scotland Yard.

Hayley was waiting in the lobby. "Been through the rooms of every man in the party," he reported. "No fragment of watch-chain. No gray coat with a torn pocket. Nothing."

"Of course not," Duff replied. "Practically every mother's son of *em has been out of the hotel this morning, and naturally any evidence like that went with them."

"I really must get back to my duties at Vine Street," Hayley went on. "You'll drop in after you've finished, old man?"

Duff nodded. "Go along. What was it that street orchestra was playing? There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding. It's true, Hayley. d.a.m.ned true."

"I'm very much afraid it is," the other answered. "See you at the station."

As Duff turned, his worried frown disappeared. Pamela Potter was beckoning to him from the parlor doorway. He went over to her at once.

"I was wondering, Inspector," she said, "if you want to see mother now, I believe I can arrange it."

"Good," he answered. "I'll go up with you in a moment." He stepped inside the parlor, and with one final warning against leaving Broome's Hotel for the present, he dismissed the a.s.sembled crowd. "I shall want to see the five remaining members of your party," he said to Lofton.

"Of course. The moment they come in, I'll let you know," Lofton agreed. He went on down the lobby, with Fenwick still arguing at his heels.

At the door of the suite occupied by Pamela Potter and her mother, Duff waited while the girl went inside. After several moments, during which he heard the sounds of a discussion going on beyond the door, the young woman returned and admitted him.

The shades were all drawn in the sitting-room where he now found himself. Gradually accustoming his eyes to the gloom, he perceived, on a chaise lounge in the darkest corner, the figure of a woman. He stepped nearer.

"This is Inspector Duff, Mother," said Pamela Potter.

"Oh, yes," answered the woman faintly.

"Mrs. Potter," remarked the detective, feeling rather ill at ease, "I am extremely sorry to trouble you. But it can not be avoided."

"I fancy not," she replied. "Won't you be seated? You won't mind the curtains being down, I hope. I'm afraid I'm not looking my best after this terrible shock."

"I have already talked with your daughter," continued Duff, moving a chair as close to the couch as he dared, "so I shan't be here more than a moment. If there is anything you can tell me about this affair, I a.s.sure you that it is very important you should do so. Your knowledge of the past is, of course, a trifle more extensive than that of Miss Pamela. Had your father any enemy?"

"Poor father," the woman said. "Pamela, the smelling salts." The girl produced a green bottle. "He was a saint, Mr. - er - what did you say his name was, my dear?"

"Mr. Duff, Mother."

"My father was a saint on earth if ever there was one. Not an enemy in the world. Really, I never heard of anything so senseless in all my life."

"But there must be sense in it somewhere, Mrs. Potter. It is for us to find out. Something in your father's past -" Duff paused, and took from his pocket a wash leather bag. "I wonder if we might have that curtain up just a little way?" he added to the girl.

"Certainly," she said, and raised it.

"I'm sure I look a fright," protested the woman.

Duff held out the bag. "See, Madam - we found this on the bed beside your father."

"What in the world is it?"