hat frame is dead.'

'You don't mean to say you've murdered him?' asked Sir George, in an
awed whisper.

'Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up
the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can
indite us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a
little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the
servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That's
why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside
the chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, and
cigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in the
chair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is an
effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have
turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off
of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly
speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more than
fourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven on
the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.'

'Apiece!' cried Sir George. 'But what have I had to do with it?'

'Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, I
saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I
think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory
before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.'

Sir George sank back in his chair wellnigh breathless with horror.
Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however,
are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they
issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.

'I'm used to this sort of thing,' he said. 'Remember how I killed off
the people in "The White Company". Now, if you will help me to get rid
of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the
misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. He
often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger
of detection. Will you lend a hand?'

'I suppose I must,' cried the conscience-stricken man.

Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock
Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was
characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car
to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his
trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body int