ome heroic stimulant, became intensely clarified. Mahr was dead.
He leaned forward and lifted the head; the body was still warm, and it
fell forward, limp and heavy. On the left temple was a large contusion
and a slight cut. The cause was not far to seek. On the table lay an
ancient flintlock pistol, somewhat apart from a heap of small arms
belonging to an eighteenth century trophy.

Murder! Murder--and Mrs. Marteen! His imagination pictured her beautiful
still face suddenly becoming maniacal with fury and pain. Gard
suppressed an exclamation. Well, he would swear Mahr was alive at half
after eleven, when he had seen him. If anyone knew of her coming before
that, she would be cleared. No one knew of his own feud with Mahr; no
one suspected it. His word would be accepted.

Mahr's face, repulsive in life, was hideous in death--a mask of
selfishness, duplicity and venomous cunning from which departing life
had taken its one charm of intelligence. He looked at the wound again.
The blow must have been sudden and of great force. Acting on an impulse,
he tiptoed to one of the curtained windows, unlocked the fastening and
raised it slightly. A robbery--why not? Silently moving back into the
room, he approached the corpse and with nervous rapidity looted the dead
man of everything of value, leaving the torn wallet, a wornout crumpled
affair, lying on the floor. He opened and emptied the table drawers, as
if a hurried search had been made. Slipping the compromising jewels into
his overcoat pocket, he turned about and faced the room like a stage
manager judging of a play's setting. The luxurious furnishings, the long
mahogany table warmly reflecting the lights of the heavily shaded lamp;
the wide, gaping fireplace; the lurking shadows of the corners; the
curtain by the opened window bellying slightly in the draught; above, in
the soft radiance of the hooded electrics, the glowing, living, radiant
personality of the Vandyke; below, the stark, evil face of the dead,
with its blue bruised temple and blood-clotted hair.

Gard strove to reconstruct the crime as the next entrant would judge
it--the thief gliding in by the window; the collector busy over the
examination of his curios; the blow, probably only intended to stun; the
hasty theft and stealthy exit.

His heart pounded in his breast, but it was with outward calm that he
crossed the threshold, calling back a "Good-night," whose grim irony was
not lost upon him. In the hall, a