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on of some of the products. I'll soon be able to identify them all. A case, you say—eh?" "Yes. You know the lawyer, Vail Wilford? Well, they found him in his office—this morning—dead—the lights on; a suicide—that is, it looked like a suicide at first. I don't know. The thing's

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a mystery to me." "Oh—a suicide?" Craig frowned, as though such a thing was entirely too trivial to interrupt his analysis of rubber heels. "He left this letter—to his wife," persisted Leslie. We read the note. Honora [it began]—Don't th

ink I am a coward to do this, but things cannot go on as they have been going. It is no use. I cannot work it out. This is the only way. So I shall drop out. You will find my will in the safe. Good-by forever. Vail. The peculiarly pungent smell of burning rubber had by this time completely filled the laboratory. It was stifling, sickening. "There—you made me forget that test, with your confounded suicide," reproached Kennedy. "That sample's ruined." "Glad of it," I snorted. "Now I won't need a gas-mask." Ho

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wever, in curiosity I looked at the note again. It was, strangely enough, written on a typewriter. [3] "Hm!" exclaimed Kennedy, with mild interest. "Suicides don't usually write on typewriters. A hasty scrawl—that's what you usually find." "But

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Wilford was an unusual man," I suggested. "You might look for almost anything from Wilford." I read the note again. And as I did so I asked myself whether it was a suicide note, after all. To me, now, it seemed too calmly composed and written for t

hat, as Kennedy had suggested. I knew Wilford as a lawyer, still comparatively young and well known almost to the point of notoriety, for of late he had taken many society divorce cases. Altogether, his office had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations. "Here's the strange thing," hastened Leslie, taking advantage of Kennedy's momentary interest before he could return to another retort laden with some new material. "We found in the office, on the desk, two glasses. In one there seemed to be traces of nothing at all—but in the other I have discovered decided traces of atropin." "That looks promising," remarked Kennedy, his analysis now entirely forgotten. "That's why I decided to call you in. Will you help me?" "Craig," I interrupted, "I don't know much about Vail Wilford, but he has had such an unsavory reputation that—well, I'd hesitate. I've always considered him a sort of society rat." [4] "What difference does that make, Walter?" argued Craig, turning on me suddenly. "If a crime has been committed, I must get at it. It is my duty—even if the man is a 'rat,' as you call him. Besides, this p

en analyzing the compositi
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