After my interview with the detective, I went out to visit some patients, and on my way home I met young Atkins, whom I had not seen since the preceding Thursday. Although we had met but once, he recognised me immediately, and greeted me most cordially. I was, however, shocked to see what havoc a short week had wrought in his looks. His face was drawn and pale, and he appeared nervous and ill at ease. Notwithstanding he had been walking in the opposite direction, he at once turned back, and we sauntered towards Madison Avenue together. Our chief topic of conversation was naturally the murder, and we both remarked how strange it was that the identity of the victim had not yet been established.

“I suppose,” said Atkins, “that we shall now never know who the man was, for I hear he was buried yesterday.”

“Oh, that doesn’t at all follow,” I assured him; “photographs have been taken of the corpse, and, if necessary, it can be exhumed at any time.”

Was my imagination playing me a trick, or was the young fellow really troubled by this information? We had now reached my destination, and, as I held out my hand to bid him good-bye, I said: “I am afraid Mrs. Atkins must have such unpleasant associations with me that she will not care to have me recalled to her notice; otherwise I should ask you to remember me to her. I hope she is well, and has not suffered too much from this prolonged heat?”

“I fear she’s not very well,” he replied. “It seems to have upset her nerves a good deal to have a murder occur in the building.”

“Yes, that is only natural. Wouldn’t it be advisable to take her away from here for a short time?” I suggested.

“I only wish she’d go; but she’s got some maggot in her head, and refuses to stir.” He paused a moment and glanced almost timidly at me.

“Doctor,” he burst out, “I wish you’d come and dine with us this evening. It would be a real kindness. Wife and I both have the blues, and you’d cheer us up no end.”

I was rather taken aback by his eagerness. “I’m very sorry, I can’t possibly do so to-night, for I’ve just promised to dine with an old friend, who is only in town for a short time.”

“Well, if you can’t come to-night, won’t you come to-morrow?” he urged.

I hesitated a moment. On the one hand I was anxious to oblige Atkins, whom I liked, and quite curious to see his wife again, and fathom, if possible, the cause of the change in her husband; while, on the other hand, I felt some delicacy about invading a lady’s home when I had reason to believe that my being there would not be agreeable to her, for I remembered that she had refused even to look at me on leaving the coroner’s presence.

“If you are sure Mrs. Atkins would care to see me, I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.”

“Why should she object to see you?” he demanded.

“There is really no reason,” I hastened to explain; “only as you tell me your wife has been much upset by the murder, and is consequently rather nervous at present, I don’t wish to inflict myself on her if there is the least danger that my company may recall that tragic occurrence too vividly to her.”

Atkins gave me a long, penetrating look, but having apparently satisfied himself that I had given my real reason, he said:

“Nonsense, Doctor! Mrs. Atkins isn’t as unreasonable as that. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Now, remember, we shall expect you at seven sharp to-morrow.”

“All right,” I called back to him.

I have given such a long account of this trifling incident, because for some time afterwards I could not get the young fellow’s face out of my mind, and I kept imagining all sorts of possible, and impossible, reasons for his changed looks. Could it be that he suspected the murdered man to have been a friend of his wife’s, and feared that she might have some guilty knowledge of his death?

As I realised how such a thought would torture him, I wanted to go at once and tell him how my first grave suspicions had been confirmed, till now I was fully convinced of Argot’s guilt. But, fearing that some injudicious word might show him that I had guessed the cause of his anxiety, I refrained. That evening after dining quietly at the Club with an old school-fellow I walked slowly home, down Madison Avenue, which, with its long rows of houses, almost all of which were closed up for the summer, presented an extremely dreary aspect. Although it was barely nine o’clock, the streets in that part of the town were well nigh deserted, everyone who could do so having fled from the city. The night was extremely dark, damp and hot. As I was nearing my office, I observed that the back door of the Rosemere was being cautiously opened, and a woman’s head, covered with a thick veil, peeped out. Madame Argot, I thought, and so it proved. Having satisfied herself that her lord and master was not in sight, she darted across the street, and disappeared in my house. I hurried up, so as not to keep her waiting, and, as I did so, I fancied I heard some one running behind me. Turning quickly around, I detected nothing suspicious. The only person I could see was a very fat man, whom I had passed several blocks back. Was he nearer than he should have been? I couldn’t tell. At any rate, he was still far enough away for it to be impossible to distinguish his features, but as I was sure that he was not Argot, I did not wait for him to come up with me. On entering the reception room, I found Madame, still heavily veiled, huddled up in a corner, where she thought she could not be seen from the street. I told her to go into the office and, approaching the window, I looked out. There was still nobody in sight except the fat man, and he had crossed over, and was ambling quietly along on the other side of the way. He was almost opposite now, and, after looking at him critically, I decided that it was too improbable that the running foot steps I had heard following me had been his. But whose were they, then? I trusted that the murder had not affected my nerves, also. At any rate, I decided to take the precaution of shutting and bolting the window, and of pulling down the blind, none of which things, during this hot weather, had I been in the habit of doing. But I did not intend to give that white-faced apparition, to whom I attributed the mysterious footsteps, the chance of falling upon me unaware, especially not while Madame Argot was on the premises.

“Well, how goes it?” I inquired, when I at last rejoined her.

“Oh, much, much better, Meestair.”

I saw, indeed, when I examined the cut, that it was healing splendidly.

“Meestair Docteur,” she began as soon as I had settled down to dress her wound, “’usban’ ’e come ’ere zis mornin’?”

“Yes,” I assented.

“Ana what ’e say, Meestair?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that! Yon wouldn’t like me to repeat to him all that you say to me, would you?”

“No; but zen, me is different; I know ’e say zat me a bad ’oman; I know, I know!”

“Indeed, he said nothing of the sort, and if you don’t keep a little quieter, I shall really not be able to do my work properly.”

“Oh, pardon; I vill be so good.”

“By the way,” I inquired, “did Mr. Merritt call on you to-day?”

“Ah! you means ze gentleman vat I see, ven I go ze dead man’s?”

“Yes.”

“He a big policeman, not?” she asked.

“Well, not a very big one,” I answered, with a smile, “but he does a good deal of important work for the police.”

“Ah, yes. Important, oui,” she nodded. “Vy ’e come see my ’usban’? Do you know? I not know; my ’usban’, ’e not know, eizer.”

“He didn’t see your husband, then?”

“No; Argot, he not in.”

“Well, I think Mr. Merritt is looking for a hat containing the initials, A.B., and he wanted to ask your husband if he had found it, by any chance.”

She started up quite regardless of her wound.

“Ah, par example, oui! Yes, indeed,” she exclaimed, vehemently.

“Your husband has found such a hat?”

“Yes, yes; I tell you. ’e make une scenes about zat ’at!” she burst out, angrily.

“But why?” I asked. “Why should he make a scene about it?”

“Ah!” she said, tossing her head coquettishly, though real annoyance still lingered in her voice, “’e say it is ze ’at of my lover!”

“Really? Have you a lover whose initials are A. B.?”

“I ’ave no lover at all, Meestair! but I ’ave a cousin whose names begin vis zose letters.”

“I see; but how did your husband happen to get his hat?”

“I not know; Argot ’e come in von evenin’——”

“What evening?” I interrupted.

“Tuesday evening, las’ veek—” I suppose my face betrayed my excitement, for she stopped and asked, anxiously: “Vat is ze matter?”

“Nothing, nothing! go on; I am merely much interested in your story. Well, what happened on Tuesday?”

“Vell, Meestair,” she resumed, “my ’usban’ ’e go out to ze restaurant vere ze Frenchmens zey go play cards. Zen my cousin, M. AndrÈ Besnard, ’e come to call. My ’usban’ ’e not zere, but I say, sit down; perhaps Argot ’e come in. My cousin ’e live in Chicago; ’e never seen my ’usban’; ’e not know ’e jealous. So ’e stay, ana ’e stay, an ve talks of France, ven ve vas chil’ren, and I forgets ze time, till I ’ears ze bell vat my ’usban’ ’e ring, ana I looks at ze clocks an I see it say eleven. Zen I frightened. I know Argot dreadful angry if ’e fin’ a man so late vis me. So I say, go avay, quick; my ’usban’ ’e jealous; ’e no believe you my cousin. Go up ze stairs an’ ’ide on ze next floor. Ven my ’usban’ ’e come in, I shut ze kitchen door, and zen you can come down and go out. All vould ’ave been vell if ’e done zis, but zat imbecile ’e peeped over ze bannisters ven my ’usban’ come in. But my ’usban’ not quite sure ’e see somebody, so ’e say nossing, but ven I shut ze kitchen door ’e sit near it an’ listen, and in a few minutes I ’ears creek, creek, an’ ’e ’ears it, too; an’ ’e jumps up, and I jumps up, for I afraid ’e kill my cousin; ’e look so angry. An’ I puts my arms quite around ’im an’ ’e fights, but I hold on, an’ ’e falls vis me, an’ so I got my bruises; but I no care, for I ’ears ze front door slam, so I knows AndrÈ is safe. In a minute my ’usban’ he up and rushes out, an’ me too; but ven I see AndrÈ is gone, I come back, but Argot ’e not come back.”

“Your husband did not come back, you say?”

“No; ’e stay looking for AndrÈ——”

“How long was it before he came in again?”

“Ah! I not know,” she exclaimed, impatiently, “’alf an hour, vone hour; me get tired an’ I go to bed. Ven Argot ’e come in ’e terribly angry; ’e storm; ’e rage; ’e say, zat vas your lover; I say, no; zat vas nobody I knows. But hÉlas, I am unfortunate, for ’e find AndrÈ’s card vat ’e left, for AndrÈ quite ze gentleman; zen, I sink, ’e have a fit; ’e swear ’e kill AndrÈ. But ’e not know vere AndrÈ is, because zere is no address on ze cards, but I know vere ’e is, for AndrÈ ’e told me. So ze next mornin’ I writes to my cousin an’ tell ’im my ’usban’ ’e come for to kill ’im. But Argot ’e go out every day to try an’ fin’ ’im. And ’e not fin’ im,” she wound up, triumphantly, “because a friend of mine she tell me zat AndrÈ ’ave left New York an’ ’ave gone back to Chicago.”

“Did your cousin look much like the corpse?”

“Ah, but not at all. My cousin ’e little man vid no beard, for ’e is a vaitor.”

“And you are sure your husband did not know him by sight.”

“But certain,” she asserted, vehemently.

“And you have no idea how your husband got hold of his hat?”

“No, Meestair, for I t’ought zat AndrÈ ’e took ’is ’at. An’ Argot ’e say nossing about it till vone day——”

“What day?” I interrupted, again.

“Oh! vat zat matter? Thursday or Friday of last veek, I sinks. Vell, I come into the kitchen and zere is my ’usban’ vis zat ’at. An’ ’e glares at me. I no understand; I say, Vat you got? Vy don’t you sit down, an’ take off your at? ’e say, it is not my ’at; it ’as A.B. inside it, an’ I vill vear it till I can bring you ze ’ead of zis A.B.; zis charming cousin whom you love so much. Yes! vait only, an’ you shall have it, an’ zen you shall vatch it rot!! And you dare say nossing—nossing,—for you be afraid ve gets ’anged for murder. But I say it no murder to kill ze lover of my vife. I say, Argot, you crazy; vere you get zat ’at? ’e say, Never min’.”

“Aren’t you afraid to stay with your husband? In one of his fits of insane jealousy he might kill you.”

“Oh, no,” she assured me; “’e beat me, but ’e no kill me; ’e love me too much. It make ’im too sad if I die. But tell me vy AndrÈ ’e send ze police for ’is ’at?”

Before I could answer her, I heard a crash in the hall, and two voices raised in vehement altercation. One of the voices belonged to my boy; the other, I didn’t recognise.

“My ’usban’,” whispered Madame Argot; “’e kill you.”

She was as pale as death, and trembling with terror.

“No, you don’t, sir; no, you don’t,” I heard the boy say. “Nobody goes into the Doctor’s office, without being announced, while I’m here.”

I rushed to the door leading into the hall, and had only just time to turn the key before a heavy mass was hurled against it. Luckily, the door was pretty solid, but it couldn’t stand many such onslaughts. Quickly locking the other one, which opened into the waiting-room, I turned back to Madame Argot. What was to be done with her? For I was far from sharing her belief in her own safety. My office has only one other means of exit, as you know. This is a third door leading to my bed-room and bath-room. I decided at once that it was useless trying to hide Madame in either of these places. Any moment the door might give way before her husband’s insane strength, and, then, it would infuriate him still more to find his wife in such a compromising position. No, the window, which opened on a small court, was our only hope. It was not a big drop to the ground, and, once there, she could easily make her way to the street, through the janitor’s apartment. Without a word, I seized her and dragged her to the window.

“Put your feet out,” I whispered; “give me your hands, and now let yourself go. It won’t hurt you, and you will be able to escape through the basement.”

“I cannot; I am afraid,” she murmured, drawing back.

A pistol shot rang out, followed by the sound of splintering wood. I had no time to turn around, and see what had happened.

“Jump at once,” I commanded.

She obeyed, almost unconscious from fear. She was pretty heavy, and very nearly had me out, too, but I managed to draw back, although the exertion was such that my arms ached for several hours afterwards. I stopped a moment to close the window partly, fearing that if I left it wide open, it might attract the madman’s attention, and that he would be after her before she had time to get to a place of safety.

Turning back into the room, I saw that a bullet had pierced one of the panels of the door around which the fight seemed to be centred. A minute more, and it would give way. I rushed to the other one, and, quickly unlocking it, dashed through the waiting room, and caught the lunatic in the rear. With a bound, I was upon him, my two hands encircling his throat.

“Stand clear of that pistol!” I shouted, as Argot (for it was indeed he) tried to fire over his shoulder. A young man I had not seen before sprang forward, and, seizing his arm, bent it back till it caused a yell of pain and the pistol fell from the madman’s grasp. At this juncture the janitor appeared, and the four of us had little difficulty in overpowering the fellow, although he still fought like a demon. As soon as he was safely bound, I sent my boy to telephone for an ambulance. I now observed, for the first time, that Argot had evidently tried to disguise himself. An enormous pillow, stuffed inside his trousers, and several towels, wound around his shoulders, gave him the appearance of extreme obesity. So, after all, he had been the fat man, and the running footsteps had been his. Well, I was glad that one mystery, at least, was cleared up.

The young stranger, whose opportune appearance had, in all probability, saved my life, still knelt beside the prostrate man, and he and I, together, succeeded in preventing him from breaking his bonds during one of his many paroxysms of frenzy.

“Thank you very much for your timely assistance,” I said; “you are a brave man.”

“Oh, not at all,” he replied; “I am on duty here; I’ve been shadowing this man all the evening.”

We had an awful job getting Argot into the ambulance, and I confess I never felt more relieved in my life than when I saw him safely locked up in a padded cell.

As I was coming away from the hospital, I met Merritt hurrying towards it.

“Hello!” he called out; “is it all over?”

“Yes; he’s locked up, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, Doctor, you’ve had a pretty lively time of it, my man tells me.”

“It’s entirely owing to your forethought, in having Argot immediately watched, that some of us are alive at present.”

“You don’t say; well, let’s have a drink to celebrate the occasion. You look a little white around the gills, Doctor.”

After tossing down my second bracer, I said: “Well, Mr. Merritt, how do you feel about your bet now?”

“Oh, all right,” he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.

I stared at him in bewilderment. Then, remembering that of course he had not yet heard Madame’s story, I proceeded at once to impart it to him.

“Very curious,” was the only comment he made.

“But, look here, Mr. Merritt; what more do you want to convince you of the Frenchman’s guilt?”

“Proofs; that’s all,” he replied cheerfully.

“But what further proof do you need? Here you have a man who is undoubtedly insane, who is furthermore an inmate of the Rosemere, and who, on Tuesday evening, went out with the avowed intention of killing his supposed rival; and, to cap the climax, the victim’s hat is found in his possession. And yet, you have doubts!”

The detective only smiled quietly.

“By the way,” he said, “I must go to the hospital, and get that hat before it disappears again.”

I started.

“It didn’t occur to me before, but when we put him into the ambulance, he was bareheaded,” I confessed.

Merritt uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“We’ll go to your place, then; it must be there. When you saw him in the street, he had on a hat similar to the one we are looking for, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s probably somewhere in your hall. That you shouldn’t have noticed its absence does not surprise me so much, but that my man should have overlooked an article of such importance, does astonish me. It’s his business to look after just such details.”

When we reached the house we had to fight our way through a crowd of reporters, but in the hall, sure enough, we found the hat. Merritt positively pounced on it, and, taking it into my office, examined it carefully.

“What do you think of it?” I at last asked.

“I’m not yet prepared to say, Doctor; besides, you and I are now playing on different sides of the fence—of that $50, in other words, and till I can produce my pretty criminal, mum’s the word.”

“When will that be?”

“Let me see,” replied the detective; “to-day is Tuesday. What do you say to this day week? If I haven’t been able to prove my case before then, I will acknowledge myself in the wrong and hand you the $50.”

“That suits me,” I said.

I am ashamed to say that all this time I had forgotten about poor Madame. Having remembered her, I went to her at once, and found her violently hysterical and attended by several well-meaning, if helpless, Irish women, who listened to her voluble French with awe, not unmixed with distrust. I at last succeeded in calming her, but I was glad her master was spending several days out of town, for I could imagine nothing more distasteful to that correct gentleman than all this noise and notoriety. I was afraid that if he heard that more reporters were awaiting his return, he would not come back at all.