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his cook took his place. She was a large, stout woman about thirty years old, with a good deal of that coarse Southern beauty, which consists chiefly in snapping black eyes, masses of dark hair, and good teeth. On catching sight of the corpse, she threw up her hands and uttered a succession of squeals, which she seemed to consider due to the horror of the occasion, and then turned serenely towards the Coroner, and with a slight courtesy stood smilingly awaiting his questions.

      “What is your name?” he inquired.

      “Jeanne Alexandrine Argot,” she replied.

      “You are in the employ of Mr. Stuart?”

      “Yes, sar. I ’ave been with Mr. Stuah, six a years, and he tell you–”

      “Please look at the deceased, and tell me if you have ever seen him before?” the Coroner hastily interrupted.

      “No, sar.”

      After answering a few more questions with overpowering volubility, she withdrew, and her husband entered. He was a tall, vigorous man, with large hawk-like eyes, apparently a good deal older than his wife. He bowed to us all on entering, and stood respectfully near the door, waiting to be spoken to.

      “What is your name?” inquired the Coroner.

      “Celestin Marie Argot.”

      “You work for Mr. Stuart?”

      “Yes, sar; I am Meester Stuah’s butlair.”

      “Look at this corpse, and tell me if you can identify it as that of any one you know, or have ever seen?”

      He now glanced for the first time at the body, and I thought I saw his face contract slightly. But the expression was so fleeting that I could not be sure of it, and when he raised his head a few moments later he seemed perfectly composed and answered calmly: “I do not know ze man.”

      Apparently the Coroner was not completely satisfied, for he went on: “You know that this man has been murdered, and that it is your duty to give us any information that might lead to his identification. Have you seen any suspicious persons about the building during the last few days?”

      “No, sar; nobody,”—but I thought he had hesitated an instant before answering.

      “You must see a good many people pass up and down the back stairs,” the detective remarked; “especially in this hot weather, when you must be obliged to leave the kitchen door open a good deal so as to get a draught.”

      The man cast a hurried, and I thought an apprehensive, glance at Mr. Merritt, and replied quickly: “Yes, sar; ze door is open almos’ all ze time, but I ’ave seen nobody.”

      “Nobody?” repeated the detective.

      “Yes, sar,” Argot asserted, still more emphatically. “No vone, excep’ ze butchair, ze bakair, and ze ozer tradesmen, of course.”

      “How early are you likely to open the kitchen door? To leave it open, I mean?”

      “Oh, not till eight o’clock, perhap—Madame Argot, she stay in déshabille till zen.”

      “What time do you go to bed?”

      “At ten o’clock generally, but some time eleven o’clock—even midnight—it depens.”

      “What time did you go to bed on Tuesday?”

      “At eleven, sar.”

      “What had you been doing during the evening?”

      “I had been at a restaurant wiz some friends.”

      “And when did you return?”

      “At about half-pas’ ten.”

      “Did you come in the back way?”

      “Yes, sar.”

      “How did you get in?”

      “My wife, she open ze door.”

      “And you saw nobody as you came in?”

      He paused almost imperceptibly. “No, sar,” he answered. But I was now convinced that he was holding something back.

      “Very well; you can go,” said the Coroner. The fellow bowed himself out with a good deal of quiet dignity.

      “I kinder fancy that man knows something he won’t tell,” said the Coroner. “Now, we’ve seen every one but the workmen,” he continued, wearily, mopping his forehead. “I don’t believe one of them knows a thing; still, I’ve got to go through with it, I suppose,” and going to the door he beckoned them all in.

      There were five of them, including the foreman, and they appeared to be quiet, respectable young men. After looking at the dead man intently for some minutes, they all asserted that they had never laid eyes on him before.

      “Now have any of you noticed during the three days you have been working here anybody who might have taken the key, kept it for some hours, and returned it without your noticing it?” inquired the Coroner.

      “We’ve seen no strangers,” the foreman replied, cautiously.

      “Who have you seen?” The foreman was evidently prepared for this question.

      “Well, sir, we’ve seen altogether six people: Jim, and Joe, and Tony, Mr. McGorry, Miss Derwent, and the Frinchman,” he replied, checking them off on his fingers.

      “When did the Frenchman come up here?”

      “Yistidy morning, sir; he said he come to see the decorations, and he come again about three; but he didn’t stay long. I warn’t a-going to have him hanging round here interfering!”

      “Did any of his actions at the time strike you as suspicious?”

      “No, sir,” acknowledged the foreman.

      “And Miss Derwent; when did you see her?”

      “I didn’t see her myself in the morning, but he”—with a nod towards one of the men,—“he saw her look in as she was waiting for the elevator, and in the afternoon she come right in.”

      “Did she say anything?”

      “Yes, sir; she said the paint and papers were mighty pretty.”

      “When you saw Miss Derwent,” said the Coroner, addressing the man whom the foreman had pointed out, “what was she doing?”

      “She was standing just inside the hall.”

      “Was her hand on the door knob?”

      “I didn’t notice, sir.”

      “Did the young lady say anything?”

      “When she saw me a-looking at her, she just said: ‘How pretty!’ and went away.”

      “Have any of you seen Mr. or Mrs. Atkins, or either of their girls, since you have been working here?” They all replied in the negative.

      The Coroner’s physician turned up at this juncture, with many apologies for his late arrival, so, having no further excuse for remaining, I took my leave. The lower hall swarmed with innumerable reporters, trying to force their way upstairs, and who were only prevented from doing so by the infuriated McGorry and two or three stalwart policemen. On catching sight of me they all fell upon me with one accord, and I only managed to escape by giving them the most detailed description of the corpse and professing complete ignorance as to everything else.

      CHAPTER VI

      A LETTER AND ITS ANSWER

      WHEN I got back to my diggings I was astonished to find that it was only ten o’clock. How little time it takes to change the whole world for one! All day long I forced myself to go about my usual work, but the thought of May Derwent never left me.

      It was the greatest relief to find that in none of the evening papers did her name appear. How McGorry managed to conceal from the reporters the fact that she had been in the building remains a mystery to this day—but how thankful I was that he was able to do so! Already my greatest preoccupation was to preserve her fair name from the least breath of

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