“Ill!” cried the clerk, in a tone of horror. “The man is dead!”
Maynard sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He knew only too well the form at the table. Nick turned to the clerk, and asked:
“Is this the young man who was summoned to this room by a call?”
“Yes,” was the hoarse reply.
“But you stated that he left the hotel almost immediately.”
“Some one left,” was the horrified reply, “and that some one wore the clothes I described to you. See! This young man has been stripped, and there are the clothes of the man who made the exchange!”
There could be no doubt about it. The dead man at the table was Townsend.
The grief of Maynard was pitiful.
“If I had only taken my chances with the diamonds,” he muttered. “Poor Townsend, to come to this at last! It was all my fault, Mr. Carter. I sent him to his death!”
“The diamonds!” echoed the clerk. “Does this mean robbery as well as murder?”