The dead man lay with peaceful
face. Professor Gehren uncovered.
"God forgive him," he said. "Who shall say that he was not right?"
"Not I," said the young assistant secretary in awed tones. "I'm
glad he escaped. But what am I to do? Here we are with a dead body
on our hands, and a state secret to be kept from the prying police."
Average Jones stood thinking for a moment, then he entered the room
and called up the coroner's office on the telephone.
"Listen, you men," he said to his companions. Then, to the official
who answered: "There's a suicide at 428 Oliver Avenue, the Bronx.
Four of us witnessed it. We had come to keep an appointment with
the man in connection with a discovery he claimed in metallurgy, and
found him dying. Yes; we will wait here. Good-by."
Returning to the porch again, he cleared away the fragments of
glass, aided by Bertram. To one of these clung a shred of paper.
For all his languid self-control the club dilettante shivered a
little as he thrust at it with a stick.
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