seized Avery's arm in appeal. "The first thing for us to
know is whether Mr. Dorne is dying. Isn't--"

Connery checked himself; he had won his appeal. Eaton, standing
quietly watchful, observed that Avery's eagerness to accuse now had
been replaced by another interest which the conductor's words had
recalled. Whether the man in the berth was to live or die--evidently
that was momentously to affect Donald Avery one way or the other.

"Of course, by all means proceed with your examination, Doctor," Avery
directed.

As Sinclair again bent over the body, Avery leaned over also; Eaton
gazed down, and Connery--a little paler than before and with lips
tightly set.

CHAPTER VII

"ISN'T THIS BASIL SANTOINE?"

The surgeon, having finished loosening the pajamas, pulled open and
carefully removed the jacket part, leaving the upper part of the body
of the man in the berth exposed. Conductor Connery turned to Avery.

"You have no objection to my taking a list of the articles in the
berth?"

Avery seemed to oppose; then, apparently, he recognized that this was
an obvious part of the conductor's duty. "None at all," he replied.

Connery gathered up the clothing, the glasses, the watch and purse, and
laid them on the seat across the aisle. Sitting down, then, opposite
them, he examined them and, taking everything from the pockets of the
clothes, he began to catalogue them before Avery. In the coat he found
only the card-case, which he noted without examining its contents, and
in the trousers a pocket-knife and bunch of keys. He counted over the
gold and banknotes in the purse and entered the amount upon his list.

"You know about what he had with him?" he asked.

"Very closely. That is correct. Nothing is missing," Avery answered.

The conductor opened the watch. "The crystal is missing."

Avery nodded. "Yes; it always--that is, it was missing yesterday."

Connery looked up at him, as though slightly puzzled by the manner of
the reply; then, having finished his list, he rejoined the surgeon.

Sinclair was still bending over the naked torso. With Eaton's help, he
had turned the body upon its back in order to look at its right side,
which before had been hidden. It had been a strong, healthy body;
Sinclair guessed its age at fifty. As a boy, the man might have been
an athlete,--a college track-runner or oarsman,--and he had kept
himself in condition through middle age. There was no mark or bruise