while I was in the midst of the
process, I would complete it and rinse the soap from my face before I
caught up the fire-extinguisher.

Had he killed himself, or had Elinor killed him? Was she the sort to
sacrifice herself to a violent impulse? Would she choose the hard way,
when there was the easy one of the divorce court? I thought not. And the
same was true of Ellingham. Here were two people, both of them careful
of appearance, if not of fact. There was another possibility, too.
That he had learned something while he was dressing, had attacked or
threatened her with a razor, and she had killed him in self-defence.

I had reached that point when Sperry came down the staircase, ushering
out the detectives and the medical man. He came to the library door and
stood looking at me, with his face rather paler than usual.

"I'll take you up now," he said. "She's in her room, in bed, and she has
had an opiate."

"Was he shot above the ear?"

"Yes."

I did not look at him, nor he at me. We climbed the stairs and entered
the room, where, according to Elinor's story, Arthur Wells had killed
himself. It was a dressing-room, as Miss Jeremy had described. A
wardrobe, a table with books and magazines in disorder, two chairs, and
a couch, constituted the furnishings. Beyond was a bathroom. On a chair
by a window the dead mans's evening clothes were neatly laid out, his
shoes beneath. His top hat and folded gloves were on the table.

Arthur Wells lay on the couch. A sheet had been drawn over the body, and
I did not disturb it. It gave the impression of unusual length that is
always found, I think, in the dead, and a breath of air from an open
window, by stirring the sheet, gave a false appearance of life beneath.

The house was absolutely still.

When I glanced at Sperry he was staring at the ceiling, and I followed
his eyes, but there was no mark on it. Sperry made a little gesture.

"It's queer," he muttered. "It's--"

"The detective and I put him there. He was here." He showed a place on
the floor midway of the room.

"Where was his head lying?" I asked, cautiously.

"Here."

I stooped and examined the carpet. It was a dark Oriental, with much red
in it. I touched the place, and then ran my folded handkerchief over it.
It came up stained with blood.

"There would be no object in using cold water there, so as not to set
the stain," Sperry said thoughtfully. "Whether he fell there or not,
that is where she allowed