he returned to the study he saw Johann sitting quietly in a corner,
shaking his head, as if trying to understand it all. Horn was bending
over a sheet of writing paper which lay before the dead man. Fellner
must have been busy at his desk when the bullet penetrated his heart.
His hand in dying had let fall the pen, which had drawn a long black
mark across the bottom of the sheet. One page of the paper was covered
with a small, delicate handwriting.

Horn called up the detective, and together they read the following
words:

"Dear Friend:--

"He challenged me--pistols--it means life or death. My enemy is very
bitter. But I am not ready to die yet. And as I know that I would be the
one to fall, I have refused the duel. That will help me little, for
his revenge will know how to find me. I dare not be a moment without a
weapon now--his threats on my refusal let me fear the worst. I have an
uncanny presentiment of evil. I shall leave here to-morrow. With the
excuse of having some pressing family affair to attend to, I have
secured several days' leave. Of course I do not intend to return. I
am hoping that you will come here and break up my establishment in my
stead. I will tell you everything else when I see you. I am in a hurry
now, for there is a good deal of packing to do. If anything should
happen to me, you will know who it is who is responsible for my death.
His name is--"

Here the letter came to an abrupt close.

Muller and Horn looked at each other in silence, then they turned their
eyes again toward the dead man.

"He was a coward," said the detective coldly, and turned away. Horn
repeated mechanically, "A coward!" and his eyes also looked down with
a changed expression upon the handsome, soft-featured face, framed in
curly blond hair, that lay so silent against the chair-back. Many women
had loved this dead man, and many men had been fond of him, for they had
believed him capable and manly.

The commissioner and Muller continued their researches in silence and
with less interest than before. They found a heap of loose ashes in the
bedroom stove. Letters and other trifles had been burned there. Muller
raked out the heap very carefully, but the writing on the few pieces of
paper still left whole was quite illegible. There were several envelopes
in the waste-basket, but all of them were dated several months back.
There was nothing that could give the slightest clue.

The letter written by the murdered man was