'And ... who are ... you?' he asked, writing.
'Theodore Trist.'
'Ah!' murmured the doctor.
The inspector drew himself up and continued writing.
'Do you know, sir, what he was doing with the pistol? Had he any intention of using it upon himself or upon any other?'
Trist looked at his questioner calmly.
'I do not know,' he answered.
CHAPTER II.
BREAKING IT.
Like one in a dream Theodore Trist passed out into the narrow street somewhat later. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning; the ball was scarcely over, and yet to this unimaginative man it seemed ages since he had spoken with William Hicks, listening in a vague way to the swinging waltz music all the while. When he reached his quiet rooms, he was almost startled at the sight of his own dress-clothes, spotless shirt-front, and unobtrusive flower. He had quite forgotten that these garments of pleasure were beneath his overcoat. His night's work had not been in keeping with dress-clothes.