et me know if there was any change. I sent a telegram to Jim's
uncle in the West, the only relative Jim ever corresponded with, and
told him to notify any others to whom the news would be of vital
interest.

Toward five o'clock, when dawn was just graying the windows, I threw
myself on my bed. I suddenly realized I was extremely tired, yet my
brain was buzzing like a dynamo. Pictures and scenes from the last few
days flashed through my mind: the vindictive look in Helen's eyes after
the fight with Woods; that table being wheeled out of Helen's room at
the hospital, with the moaning white bundle on it; the upturned car
pricked out of the darkness by the automobile lamps, and finally, Frank
Woods' face when he heard that Helen had been in the car. With the
realization that I ought to get up and close the window, where the
morning breeze was idly flapping the curtain, I fell asleep.

I awoke with a start, to find the room flooded with golden sunlight. A
glance at the clock on the mantel-shelf showed that it was after nine.
My body was cramped and stiff and I felt stale and musty from having
slept in my clothes. It was only after a cold shower and a complete
change that I felt refreshed enough to pick up the threads where I had
dropped them the night before.

Again, like the sudden aching of a tooth, came the heart-breaking
realization that Jim was dead. With it came also anxiety for Helen's
condition, so I called up the hospital at once. They could only say
she had not recovered consciousness, but seemed to be resting
comfortably.

I went down to the office to tell the stenographers they might have a
vacation until after the funeral, and to lock up. The first person I
found there was Inspector Robinson, who was calmly reading over the
correspondence on Jim's desk. With all the "sang-froid" in the world,
he met my infuriated gaze.

"Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Thought there might be something here
touching on the case." He waved a hand toward Jim's letter basket.

"Have you found the black limousine?" I asked.

"Certainly, my dear man, certainly! We've not only found the car, but
we found the people who were in the car and they know nothing about the
accident. My first explanation was the right one, as I knew it would
be. Felderson was driving recklessly, saw the bridge, put on the
brakes, skidded--was killed."

"But why should he put on his brakes at the bridge?" I queried.

"I've thought of that,