"Who did then?" he asked.
"Nobody."
"You mean they both suicided in that abnormal way?"
"No, it wasn't suicide—they were killed—but not by a human being —at least, not directly." I felt that I was floundering hopelessly, and stopped. "I can't tell you now, Godfrey," I pleaded. "I haven't had time to think it out. You've got enough for one day."
"Yes," he smiled; "I've got enough for one day. And now good-bye. Perhaps I'll look in on you about midnight, on my way home, if I get through by then."
I sighed. Godfrey's energy became a little wearing sometimes. I was already longing for bed, and there remained so much to be done. But he, after a day which I knew had been a hard one, and with a many-column story still to write, was apparently as fresh and eager as ever.
"All right," I agreed. "If you see a light, come up. If there isn't any light, I'll be in bed, and I'll kill you if you wake me."
"Conditions accepted," he laughed, as I opened the door for him.
Parks joined me as I turned back into the house.
"I got Rogers to bed, sir," he said. "He'll be all right in the morning. But he's a queer duck."