and Thorpe was alone with his dead comrade.

But McClellan Thorpe made no move. He sat still on the edge of the
chair, his face turned away from Blair's bedroom and toward the outer
door.

At last Somers, the superintendent, arrived, and with him was Doctor
Frost.

They went straight to Blair's bedroom, scarcely speaking to Thorpe.

"Hastings tells me he's dead," Somers merely said, as he passed Thorpe's
chair.

With practiced experience, the doctor examined the body.

"The man has been dead about eight or nine hours," he said, "it's
impossible to fix the time of his death exactly,--but I place it at
about three o'clock this morning. Though it may have taken place an hour
sooner or later."

"What caused it?" Somers, asked, "a stroke?"

"Can't tell without an autopsy. There is positively no indication of any
reason for it."

"A natural death, of course?" Thorpe asked, jerkily.

The doctor gave him a quick glance. "Looks so," he returned. "Maybe a
stroke,--though he's young for that. Maybe acute indigestion, is he
troubled that way?"

"With indigestion? Yes," Thorpe said; "he has it most of the time. But
not acute,--merely a little discomfort when he overeats,--which he often
does."

"Does he take anything for it?"

"I don't know,--yes, I've seen him take remedies now and then. I've not
paid it much attention."

"Queer case," the doctor mused. "If it had been that, he would have
cried out, I think. Did you hear no disturbance?"

"Not a bit," said Thorpe. "Are you sure it's not a stroke?"

"He's too young for a stroke. Where are his people?"

"'Way out West. And he hasn't many. An invalid mother, and a young
sister,-- I think that's all."

"Well,--who should be notified? Those relatives? Where are they? Will
you take charge?"

"Oh, I can't!" Thorpe spoke shrinkingly. "I'm-- I'm no relation,--you
know,--merely a fellow lodger in his apartment. I'd--rather get out,
any way."

"You and he chums?"

"Yes; both architects. Of course, I know all about Mr. Blair's work and
that,--but I know nothing of his private affairs. Can't you get somebody
to--to settle up his estate?"

"If he has an estate to settle. But somebody ought to look after things.
Who are his friends?"

"Mr. Crane is one,--Benjamin Crane. And Christopher Shelby,--he's an
intimate chum."

"Crane, the man who wrote the book about his son's spirit?"

"Yes, that one. Shall I telephone him?"

"Yes; you'd better do so. And I think it