"Hand me your key," I said, "and I'll take a look at the
corpse. Excuse my caution, but I'm bound to verify a
bit if I can."

He shook his head mournfully. "I reckoned you'd ask
for that, but I haven't got it. It's on my chain on the
dressing-table. I had to leave it behind, for I couldn't
leave any clues to breed suspicions. The gentry who
are after me are pretty bright-eyed citizens. You'll have
to take me on trust for the night, and to-morrow you'll
get proof of the corpse business right enough."

I thought for an instant or two. "Right. I'll trust you for
the night. I'll lock you into this room and keep the key.
Just one word, Mr. Scudder. I believe you're straight,
but if so be you are not I should warn you that I'm a
handy man with a gun."

"Sure," he said, jumping up with some briskness. "I
haven't the privilege of your name, sir, but let me tell
you that you're a white man. I'll thank you to lend me a
razor."

I took him into my bedroom and turned him loose. In
half an hour's time a figure came out that I scarcely
recognized. Only his gimlety hungry eyes were the
same. He was shaved dean, his hair was parted in the
middle, and he had cut his eyebrows. Further, he
carried himself as if he had been drilled, and was the
very model, even to the brown complexion, of some
British officer who had had a long spell in India. He
had a monocle, too, which he stuck in his eye, and
every trace of the American had gone out of his
speech.

"My hat! Mr. Scudder--" I stammered.

"Not Mr. Scudder," he corrected; "Captain Theophilus
Digby, of the 40th Gurkhas, presently home on leave.
I'll thank you to remember that, sir."

I made him up a bed in my smoking-room and sought
my own couch, more cheerful than I had been for the
past month. Things did happen occasionally, even in
this God-forgotten metropolis.

I woke next morning to hear my man, Paddock, making
the deuce of a row at the smoking-room door.
Paddock was a fellow I had done a good turn to out on
the Selakwe, and I had inspanned him as my servant as
soon as I got to England. He had about as much gift of
the gab as a hippopotamus, and was not a great hand
at valeting, but I knew I could count on his loyalty.

"Stop that row, Paddock," I said. "There's a friend of
mine, Captain-Captain" (I couldn't remember the
name) "dossing down in there. Get breakfast for two
and then come and speak to me."

I told Paddock a fine story about how my friend was a
great swell, with his nerves pretty bad from overwork,
who wanted absolute rest and peace. Nobody had got
to know he was here, or he would be besieged by
communications from the India Office and the Prime
Minister and his cure would be ruined. I am bound to
say Scudder played up splendidly when he came to
breakfast. He fixed Paddock with his eyeglass, just like
a British officer, asked him about the Boer War, and
slung out at me a lot of stuff about imaginary pals.
Paddock couldn't learn to call me "sir," but he "sirred"
Scudder as if his life depended on it.

I left him with the newspaper and a box of cigars, and
went down to the City fill luncheon. When I got back
the lift man had an important face.

"Nawsty business 'ere this morning, sir. Gent in No. 15
been and shot 'isself. They've just took 'im to the
mortuary. The police are up there now."

I ascended to No. 15, and found a couple of bobbies
and an inspector busy making an examination. I asked
a few idiotic questions, and they soon kicked me out.
Then I found the man that had valeted Scudder, and
pumped him, but I could see he suspected nothing. He
was a whining fellow with a churchyard face, and half a
crown went far to console him.

I attended the inquest next day. A partner of some
publishing firm gave evidence that the deceased had
brought him wood-pulp propositions, and had been,
he believed, an agent of an American business. The
jury found it a case of suicide while of unsound mind,
and the few effects were handed over to the American
Consul to deal with. I gave Scudder a full account of
the affair, and it interested him greatly. He said he
wished he could have attended the inquest, for he
reckoned it would be about as spicy as to read one's
own obituary notice.