he said with the somewhat pedantic
mode of speech which Whitaker was to learn to associate with his moments
of most serious concentration--"I echo the sentiment. But let us suspend
judgment on Drummond's case until we know more. It is not as yet an
established fact that he is dead."

"You mean there's hope--?"

"There's doubt," Ember corrected acidly--"doubt, at least, in my mind.
You see, I saw Drummond in the flesh, alive and vigorous, a good half
hour after he is reported to have leaped to his death."

"Where?"

"Coming up the stairs from the down-town Subway station in front of the
Park Avenue Hotel. He wore a hat pulled down over his eyes and an old
overcoat buttoned tight up to his chin. He was carrying a satchel
bearing the initials C. S. D., but was otherwise pretty thoroughly
disguised, and, I fancied, anxious enough to escape recognition."

"You're positive about this?"

"My dear man," said Ember with an air, "I saw his ear distinctly."

"His ear!"

"I never forget an ear; I've made a special study of them. They're
the last parts of the human anatomy that criminals ever think
to disguise; and, to the trained eye, as infallible a means of
identification--nearly--as thumb-prints. The man I saw coming up from
the Subway kept as much as possible away from the light; he had
successfully hidden most of his face; but he wore the inches, the
hand-bag, and the ear of Carter S. Drummond. I don't think I can be
mistaken."

"Did you stop him--speak to him?"

Ember shook his head. "No. I doubt if he would have remembered me. Our
acquaintance has been of the slightest, limited to a couple of meetings.
Besides, I was in a hurry to get to the theatre, and at that time had
heard nothing of this reputed suicide."

"Which way did he go?"

"Toward the Pennsylvania station, I fancy; that is, he turned west
through Thirty-third Street. I didn't follow--I was getting into a taxi
when I caught sight of him."

"But what did you think to see him disguised? Didn't it strike you as
curious?"

"Very," said Ember dryly. "At the same time, it was none of my
affair--then. Nor did it present itself to me as a matter worth meddling
with until, later, my suspicions were aroused by the scene in the
theatre--obviously the result of your appearance there--and still later,
when I heard the suicide report."

"But--good Lord!" Whitaker passed a hand across his dazed eyes. "What
can it mean? Why should he do this thing?"

"There