e, as I stared down at the motionless
form. Then I touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse which had ceased to
beat. A noise at my back caused me to start, and glance behind. Billie
stood at the end of the narrow hall.

"What is it? Have--have you killed him?"

I whirled, facing her, indignant at the words, and yet understanding as
swiftly the reason for her suspicions.

"It is Captain Le Gaire. I have just found him lying here."

"Found him! Yes, but not lying there; I heard the noise, the fall of his
body. Is--is he dead?"

She stood grasping the stair-rail, shrinking back from closer approach,
her white face horror-stricken. I drew a quick breath, fairly quivering
under the sting of her words.

"Yes, he is dead, Miss Hardy," I said, knowing I must end the suspense,
"but not by my hand. I tripped and fell in the darkness, causing the
noise you heard. I am going to ask you to return to your room; you can
be of no service here. I will have your father and Captain Bell help me
with the body."

She never moved, her eyes on my face.

"Then--then will you permit my father to come to me?"

"Certainly--perhaps we will know then how this occurred."

"Is that your revolver lying there?"

I had forgotten the weapon, but perceived it now, on the floor just
beyond Le Gaire's head.

"Yes, it was dropped when I fell," I took a step toward her. "You will
go back, will you not?"

She seemed to shrink from my approach, and moved backward, still facing
me, until she came to her own door. There she remained a moment,
clinging to the knob, but as I emerged into the full light of the front
hall, she stepped into the room, and closed the door. Some way, her
action hurt me worse than any words could have done, yet I walked past
to the stairs in silence, and called to the guard below.

Miles came up with the two Confederates, and a dozen words of
explanation sufficed. Together we picked up the body, bore it into a
near-by room, and placed it upon the bed. The man had been struck back
of the ear, apparently by the butt of a revolver or the stock of a gun,
the skull crushed. Death had been instantaneous; possibly he never knew
what hit him. We examined the wound, and then looked into each others'
faces utterly unable to account for the condition.

"By Gad, I don't see how he ever got that," said Hardy. "Nor this ugly
cut here on the forehead. What do you make out of it, Galesworth?"

I shook my head, thoroughly mystified.