"Perhaps the owner won't sell," I suggested.
"Oh yes, he will. Anything can be bought—for a price."
"You mean you're going to have this cabinet, whatever the cost?"
"I mean just that."
"But, surely, there's a limit."
"No, there isn't."
"At least you'll tell me where to begin," I said. "I don't know anything of the value of such things."
"Well," said Vantine, "suppose you begin at ten thousand francs. We mustn't seem too eager. It's because I'm so eager, I want you to carry it through for me. I can't trust myself."
"And the other end?"
"There isn't any other end. Of course, strictly speaking, there is, because my money isn't unlimited; but I don't believe you will have to go over five hundred thousand francs."
I gasped.
"You mean you're willing to give a hundred thousand dollars for this cabinet?"
Vantine nodded.
"Maybe a little more. If the owner won't accept that, you must let me know before you break off negotiations. I'm a little mad about it, I fancy—all collectors are a little mad. But I want that cabinet, and I'm going to have it."
I did not reply. I only looked at him. And he laughed as he caught my glance.
"I can see you share that opinion, Lester," he said. "You fear for me. I don't blame you—but come and see it."
He led the way out of the room and down the stairs; but when we reached the lower hall, he paused.
"Perhaps I'd better see my visitor first," he said. "You'll find a new picture or two over there in the music-room—I'll be with you in a minute."
I started on, and he turned through a doorway at the left.
An instant later, I heard a sharp exclamation; then his voice calling me.
"Lester! Come here!" he cried.
I ran back along the hall, into the room which he had entered. He was standing just inside the door.
"Look there," he said, with a queer catch in his voice, and pointed with a trembling hand to a dark object on the floor.
I moved aside to see it better. Then my heart gave a sickening throb; for the object on the floor was the body of a man.
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST TRAGEDY
It needed but a glance to tell me that the man was dead. There could be no life in that livid face, in those glassy eyes.
"Don't touch him," I said, for Vantine had started forward. "It's too late."
I drew him back, and we stood for a moment shaken as one always is by sudden and unexpected contact with death.
"Who is he?" I asked, at last.
"I don't know," answered Vantine hoarsely. "I never saw him before." Then he strode to the bell and rang it violently. "Parks," he went on sternly, as that worthy appeared at the door, "what has been going on in here?"
"Going on, sir?" repeated Parks, with a look of amazement, not only at the words, but at the tone in which they were uttered. "I'm sure I don't know what—"
Then his glance fell upon the huddled body, and he stopped short, his eyes staring, his mouth open.
"Well," said his master, sharply. "Who is he? What is he doing here?"
"Why—why," stammered Parks, thickly, "that's the man who was waiting to see you, sir."
"You mean he has been killed in this house?" demanded Vantine.
"He was certainly alive when he came in, sir," said Parks, recovering something of his self-possession. "Maybe he was just looking for a quiet place where he could kill himself. He seemed kind of excited."
"Of course," agreed Vantine, with a sigh of relief, "that's the explanation. Only I wish he had chosen some place else. I suppose we shall have to call the police, Lester?"
"Yes," I said, "and the coroner. Suppose you leave it to me. We'll lock up this room, and nobody must leave the house until the police arrive."
"Very well," assented Vantine, visibly relieved, "I'll see to that," and he hastened away, while I went to the 'phone, called up police headquarters, and told briefly what had happened.
Twenty minutes later, there was a ring at the bell, and Parks opened the door and admitted four men.
"Why, hello, Simmonds," I said, recognising in the first one the detective-sergeant who had assisted in clearing up the Marathon mystery. And back of him was Coroner Goldberger, whom I had met in two previous cases; while the third countenance, looking at me with a quizzical smile, was that of Jim Godfrey, the Record's star reporter. The fourth man was a policeman in uniform, who, at a word from Simmonds, took his station at the door.
"Yes," said Godfrey, as we shook hands, "I happened to be talking to Simmonds when the call came in, and I thought I might as well come along. What is it?"
"Just a suicide, I think," and I unlocked the door into the room where the dead man lay.
Simmonds, Goldberger and Godfrey stepped inside. I followed and closed the door.
"Nothing has been disturbed," I said. "No one has touched the body."
Simmonds nodded, and glanced inquiringly about the room; but Godfrey's eyes, I noticed, were on the face of the dead man. Goldberger dropped to his knees beside the body, looked into the eyes and touched his fingers to the left wrist. Then he stood erect again and looked down at the body, and as I followed his gaze, I noted its attitude more accurately than I had done in the first shock of discovering it.
It was lying on its right side, half on its stomach, with its right arm doubled under it, and its left hand clutching at the floor above its head. The knees were drawn up as though in a convulsion, and the face was horribly contorted, with a sort of purple tinge under the skin, as though the blood had been suddenly congealed. The eyes were wide open, and their glassy stare added not a little to the apparent terror and suffering of the face. It was not a pleasant sight, and after a moment, I turned my eyes away with a shiver of repugnance.
The coroner glanced at Simmonds.
"Not much question as to the cause," he said. "Poison of course."
"Of course," nodded Simmonds.
"But what kind?" asked Godfrey.
"It will take a post-mortem to tell that," and Goldberger bent for another close look at the distorted face. "I'm free to admit the symptoms aren't the usual ones."
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders.
"I should say not," he agreed, and turned away to an inspection of the room.
"What can you tell us about it, Mr. Lester?" Goldberger questioned.
I told all I knew—how Parks had announced a man's arrival, how Vantine and I had come downstairs together, how Vantine had called me, and finally how Parks had identified the body as that of the strange caller.
"Have you any theory about it?" Goldberger asked.
"Only that the call was merely a pretext—that