aristocrats. Still, Clifford knew that I shouldn't like people to hear that I was his valet."
The lawyer's knowledge of Reggie's character told him that interruption would be useless. He must tell his story in his own way. He merely showed his impatience by taking out his watch and clicking it.
"I know," said Reggie, accepting the hint. "Well, to-night I dined with three pals at White's. We were going on to the Covent Garden Ball. But, somehow, an extra man turned up and someone suggested Bridge. You know I've not got a very good reputation for solvency, and I could see they'd be just as well pleased if I didn't cut in, so at ten o'clock I left them. I thought at first of going on to the ball alone. But that struck me as being a dull scheme, and so I walked back to King Street."
"Yes, yes?"
"I let myself in with the latchkey and went into the sitting-room, which is at the back of the house on the ground floor, the second room from the front. The front room is not furnished. And there I saw Clifford lying on the floor—dead."
The barrister was silent at the horror.
"Dead," he whispered at last. "My oldest friend, my best friend! What could have happened?"
"That's the mystery," answered Reggie. "That's the extraordinary thing. What does a man, a man in robust health and strength die of . . . like that?"
"Heart disease?"
