“Besides,” I protested, “how would he get in?  How would he get away?  What was he after, if he left the letters behind?” Then I rose wearily.  “I must be getting back to the office,” I said.  “This is Saturday, and we close at two.  Are you coming?”

“No,” he answered; “if you don’t mind, I’ll sit here a while longer and think things over, Lester.  Perhaps I’ll blunder on to the truth yet!”

CHAPTER XVII

ENTER M. ARMAND

I got back to the office to find that M. Felix Armand, of Armand et Fils, had called, and, finding me out, had left his card with the pencilled memorandum that he would call again Monday morning.  There was another caller, who had awaited my return—­a tall, angular man, with a long moustache, who introduced himself as Simon W. Morgan, of Osage City, Iowa.

“Poor Philip Vantine’s nearest living relative, sir,” he added.  “I came as soon as possible.”

“It was very good of you,” I said.  “The funeral will be at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, from the house.”

“You had a telegram from me?”

“Yes,” I answered.

He hitched about in his chair uneasily for a moment.  I knew what he wanted to say, but saw no reason to help him.

“He left a will, I suppose?” he asked, at last.

“Oh, yes; we have arranged to probate it Monday.  You can examine it then, if you wish.”

“Have you examined it?”

“I am familiar with its provisions.  It was drawn here in the office.”

He was pulling furiously at his moustache.

“Cousin Philip was a very wealthy man, I understand,” he managed to say.

“Comparatively wealthy.  He had securities worth about a million and a quarter, besides a number of pieces of real property—­and, of course, the house he lived in.  He owned a very valuable collection of art objects—­pictures, furniture, tapestries, and such things; but what they are worth will probably never be known.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because he left them all to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Outside of a few legacies to old servants, he left his whole fortune to the same institution.”

I put it rather brutally, no doubt, but I was anxious to end the interview.

Mr. Morgan’s face grew very red.

“He did!” he ejaculated.  “Ha—­well, I have heard he was rather crazy.”

“He was as sane as any man I ever knew,” I retorted drily.  And then I remembered the doubts which had assailed me that last day, when Vantine was fingering the Boule cabinet.  But I kept those doubts to myself.

“Ha—­we’ll have to see about that!” said my visitor, threateningly.

“By all means, Mr. Morgan,” I assented heartily.  “If you have any doubt about it, you should certainly look into it.  And now, if you will pardon me, I have many things to do, and we close early to-day.”