o dumb witnesses. Now and then he whistled, almost
inaudibly, a few bars. It was very still in the room. A subdued
twittering came from the trees through the open window. From time to
time a breeze rustled in the leaves of the thick creeper about the sill.
But the man in the room, his face grown hard and somber now with his
thoughts, never moved.

So he sat for the space of half an hour. Then he rose quickly to his
feet. He replaced the shoes on their shelf with care, and stepped out
upon the landing.

Two bedroom doors faced him on the other side of the passage. He opened
that which was immediately opposite, and entered a bedroom by no means
austerely tidy. Some sticks and fishing-rods stood confusedly in one
corner, a pile of books in another. The housemaid's hand had failed to
give a look of order to the jumble of heterogeneous objects left on the
dressing-table and the mantel-shelf--pipes, pen-knives, pencils, keys,
golf-balls, old letters, photographs, small boxes, tins and bottles. Two
fine etchings and some water-color sketches hung on the walls; leaning
against the end of the wardrobe, unhung, were a few framed engravings. A
row of shoes and boots was ranged beneath the window. Trent crossed the
room and studied them intently; then he measured some of them with his
tape, whistling very softly. This done, he sat on the side of the bed,
and his eyes roamed gloomily about the room.

The photographs on the mantel-shelf attracted him presently. He rose and
examined one representing Marlowe and Manderson on horseback. Two others
were views of famous peaks in the Alps. There was a faded print of three
youths--one of them unmistakably his acquaintance of the haggard blue
eyes--clothed in tatterdemalion soldier's gear of the sixteenth century.
Another was a portrait of a majestic old lady, slightly resembling
Marlowe. Trent, mechanically taking a cigarette from an open box on the
mantel-shelf, lit it and stared at the photographs. Next he turned his
attention to a flat leathern case that lay by the cigarette-box.

It opened easily. A small and light revolver of beautiful workmanship
was disclosed, with a score or so of loose cartridges. On the stock were
engraved the initials "J. M."

A step was heard on the stairs, and as Trent opened the breech and
peered into the barrel of the weapon, Inspector Murch appeared at the
open door of the room. "I was wondering"--he began; then stopped as he
saw what the other was abou