me.

"Keep back," I growled. "Some one's inside," and I sent the light shaft
into corners to drive out the shadows, to cut in under the desk and
chairs. Worth's reply was a laugh, and his arm went by me to reach
inside the door. Then, as his fingers found the button, a light sprang
out from a lamp upon the center desk.

"You're letting your nerves play the deuce with you, Jerry," he said
lightly. "Make way for my crowbar and we'll get in out of the wet."

I made no answer, but for a long moment more I searched that room with
my eyes; but it was the kind you see all over at a glance. Big, square,
plain, it hadn't a window in it; the walls, lined with book shelves,
floor to ceiling; a fireplace; a library table with drawers; a few
chairs. No chance for a hideout. I glanced at the ceiling and confirmed
the evidence of my eyes. There was a skylight, and through it had come
that curious glow that first attracted my attention to the place.

Then I gave Worth room to wield his tools on the barred door, while I
ran quickly back to the house, into the kitchen, and plumped down in the
chair where I had sat before. The light showed on the fog, brightened
and dimmed as the mist drifted past. There was no possibility of a
mistake: some one had been in the study, had turned on the table lamp,
had projected his shadow against the patched panel of the door, and had
somehow left the room, one door bolted, the only other exit barred and
nailed.

I went back and rejoined Worth who was standing where a brownish stain
on the rug marked a spot a little nearer the corner of the table than it
was to the outer door. A curious place for a suicide to fall. Behind the
table was the library chair in which Thomas Gilbert worked when at his
desk; beside it a small cabinet with a humidor on its top and the open
door below revealing several decanters and bottles, whisky and wine
glasses, a tray; between the desk and the fireplace were two other
chairs, large and comfortable; but in front of the table--between it and
the door--was barren floor.

It is a fact that most men who shoot themselves do so while sitting;
some lying in a bed; few standing. The psychology of this I must leave
to others, but experience has taught me to question the suicide of one
who has seemingly placed the muzzle of a revolver against him while on
his feet. Thomas Gilbert had stood; had chosen to take his life as he
was walking from door to desk, or from desk to door.

"