his pocket. Then Cleek
crossed the room and stood a moment looking down at the body, lying
there huddled and distorted in the death agony that had so cruelly and
mysteriously seized it.

So this was Will Simmons. Well, if the face is any index to the
character--which in nine cases out of ten it isn't--then Mr.
Naylor-Brent's confidence had certainly not been misplaced. A fine,
clean, rugged face this, with set lips, a face that would never fail a
friend, and never forgive an enemy. Young Wilson, who had stepped up
beside Cleek, shivered suddenly as he looked down at the body, and
closed his eyes.

Mr. Brent's voice broke the silence that the sight of death so often
brings.

"I think," he said quietly, "if you don't mind, gentlemen, I'll get back
to my office. There are important matters at stake just now, so if
you'll excuse me--It's near closing time you know, and there are many
important matters to see to. Wilson, you stay here with these gentlemen,
and render any assistance that you can. Show them round if they wish it.
You need not resume work to-day. Anything which you wish to know, please
call upon me."

"Thanks. We'll remember," Cleek bowed ceremoniously, as the manager
retreated, "but no doubt Mr. Wilson here will give us all the assistance
we require, Mr. Brent. We'll make an examination of the body first, and
let you know the verdict."

The door closed on Mr. Brent's figure, and Cleek and Mr. Narkom and
young Wilson were alone with the dead.

Cleek went down upon his knees before the still figure, and examined it
from end to end. The clenched hands were put to the keenest scrutiny,
but he passed no comment, only glancing now and again from those same
hands to the figure of the young cashier who stood trembling beside him.

"Hmm, convulsions," he finally said softly to himself, and Mr. Narkom
watched his face with intense eagerness. "Might be aconite--but how
administered?" Again he stood silent, his brain moving swiftly down an
avenue of thought, and if the thoughts could have been seen, they should
have shown something like this: Convulsions--writhing--twisting--tied up
in knots of pain--a _rope_.

Suddenly he wheeled swiftly upon Wilson, his face a mask for his
emotions.

"Look here," he said sternly, "I want you to tell me the exact truth,
Mr. Wilson. It's the wisest way when dealing with the police, you know.
Are you positively certain Simmons said nothing as to the cause of his
death? What e