e came in about ten minutes ago.
He said you were expecting him, so I let him into your rooms."

"That was right," I said, and reflected again upon Godfrey's
exhaustless energy.

I found him lolling in an easy chair, and he looked up with a smile
at my entrance. "Higgins said you hadn't come in yet," he explained,
"so I thought I'd wait a few minutes on the off chance that you
mightn't be too tired to talk. If you are, say so, and I'll be moving
along."

"I'm not too tired," I said, hanging up my coat. "I feel a good deal
better than I did an hour ago."

"I saw that you were about all in."

"How do you keep it up, Godfrey?" I asked, sitting down opposite him.
"You don't seem tired at all."

"I _am_ tired, though," he said, "a little. But I've got a fool brain
that won't let my body go to sleep so long as there is work to be
done. Then, as soon as everything is finished, the brain lets go and
the body sleeps like a log. Now I knew I couldn't go to sleep
properly to-night until I had heard the very interesting theory you
are going to confide to me. Besides, I have a thing or two to tell
you."

"Go ahead," I said.

"We had a cable from our Paris office just before I left. It seems
that M. Theophile d'Aurelle plays the fiddle in the orchestra of the
Cafe de Paris. He played as usual to-night, so that it is manifestly
impossible that he should also be lying in the New York morgue.
Moreover, none of his friends, so far as he knows, is in America. No
doubt he may be able to identify the photograph of the dead man, and
we've already started one on the way, but we can't hear from it for
six or eight days. But my guess was right--the fellow's name isn't
d'Aurelle."

"You say you have a photograph?"

"Yes, I had some taken of the body this afternoon. Here's one of
them. Keep it; you may have a use for it."

I took the card, and, as I gazed at the face depicted upon it, I
realised that the distorted countenance I had seen in the afternoon
had given me no idea of the man's appearance. Now the eyes were
closed and the features composed and peaceful, but even death failed
to give them any dignity. It was a weak and dissipated face, the face
of a hanger-on of cafes, as Parks had said--of a loiterer along the
boulevards, of a man without ambition, and capable of any depth of
meanness and deceit. At least, that is how I read it.

"He's evidently low-class," said Godfrey, watching me. "One of those
parasites, without wor