It was only four o'clock, but all wish
for sleep had left me. I decided to investigate without any more ado.

I made the best toilet that cold water and a cracked mirror permitted,
longing the while for a bath, for a breakfast tray, for a hundred
civilized things. Taking my hat and coat, I went quietly down the
staircase. The garage door beckoned me, and all unprepared, I walked
into the tragedy of the affair.

In the dim place there were signs of a desperate struggle. The rugs and
cushions of Miss Falconer's automobile were scattered far and wide. The
gray car had vanished; and in the center of the floor was Georges,
the chauffeur, lying on his back with arms extended, staring up at the
ceiling with wide, unseeing blue eyes.

CHAPTER XVI

"I MUST GO ON"

Kneeling by the young man's side, I felt for his pulse; but the moment
that my fingers touched his cold wrist I knew the truth. There flashed
into my mind queerly, as things do at grim moments, an often-heard
expression about rigor mortis setting in. With this poor fellow it had
not started, but he was dead for all that. The most skilful surgeon in
Europe could not have helped him now.

I never doubted that it was murder. The confusion of the garage was
proof of it; and the instrument, once I looked about me, was not far
to seek. Divided between rage, horror, and pity, I saw a sort of sharp
stiletto suitable for use as a penknife or letter opener, which, after
doing its work, had been cast upon the floor.

I remained on my knees beside the lad, smitten with a keen remorse.
I knew no good of him; I had even suspected him; but he had an honest
face. Why had I not kept watch all night? The instructions I had given,
the plan I had thought so clever, might be responsible for the killing;
it must have been some echo of the struggle that had roused me when I
had wakened and glanced out and gone placidly back to sleep.

Had Van Blarcom caught our whispered colloquy, or surmised it? Helped
by his precious colleagues, he must have taken Georges unprepared,
throttled him to prevent his shouting, and ended his frantic struggles
with one swift, ruthless blow. But why? What sort of soldiers could
these be who wore the uniform of a brave, chivalrous country and yet did
murder? What sort of mission were they bound upon that for no visible
gain or motive they risked desperate work like this?

And the girl upstairs? The thought was like a knife thrust; it brought
me to m