"He shot himself, didn't he?"
"The police said so," she replied, with her grim smile. "There is such a thing as murdering a man by driving him to suicide."
She wrote an address on a card and gave it to me.
"Just a minute," I said, as she was about to go. "Have you ever heard Mr. Fleming speak of the Misses Maitland?"
"They were—his first wife's sisters. No, he never talked of them, but I believe, just before he left Plattsburg, he tried to borrow some money from them."
"And failed?"
"The oldest one telegraphed the refusal, collect," she said, smiling faintly.
"There is something else," I said. "Did you ever hear of the number eleven twenty-two?"
"No—or—why, yes—" she said. "It is the number of my house."
It seemed rather ridiculous, when she had gone, and I sat down to think it over. It was anticlimax, to say the least. If the mysterious number meant only the address of this very ordinary woman, then—it was probable her story of Schwartz was true enough. But I could not reconcile myself to it, nor could I imagine Schwartz, with his great bulk, skulking around pinning scraps of paper to pillows.