th him."

"The devil, now!" Rand gave a good imitation of surprise. "What sort of
jiggery-pokery was Goode up to?"

"Fred said that his informant told him that Lane had proof that Goode had
accepted a bribe from Arnold Rivers, to misconduct the suit which Lane
was bringing against Rivers about a pair of pistols he had bought from
Rivers. It seems that Goode was Rivers's attorney, also, and had been
involved with him in a number of dishonest transactions, although the
connection had been kept secret."

"That's a new angle, now," Rand said. "I suppose that he killed Rivers in
order to prevent the latter from incriminating him. Why didn't Fred come
to me with this?" he asked.

"Eh?" Evidently Varcek hadn't thought of that. "Why, I suppose he was
concerned about the possibility of repercussions in the business world.
After all, Goode is our board chairman, and maybe he thought that people
might begin thinking that the murder had some connection with the affairs
of the company."

"That's possible, of course," Rand agreed. "And what's your own
attitude?"

"Colonel Rand, I cannot allow these facts to be suppressed," the Czech
said. "My own position is too vulnerable; you've showed me that. Except
for the fact that somebody could have entered the house through the
garage, the burden of suspicion would lie on me and Fred Dunmore."

"Well, do you want me to help you with it?" Rand asked.

"Yes, if you will. It would be helping yourself, also, I believe," Varcek
replied. "Fred is downstairs, now, in the library; I suggest that you and
I go down and have a talk with him. Maybe you could show him the folly of
trying to suppress any facts concerning Lane's death."

"Yes, that would be both foolish and dangerous." Rand got to his feet,
keeping his hand on the .38 Colt. "Let's go down and talk to him now."

They walked side by side toward the spiral, Rand keeping on the right and
lagging behind a little, lifting the stubby revolver clear of his pocket.
Yet, in spite of his vigilance, it happened before he could prevent it.

A lance of yellow fire jumped out of the shadows of the stairway,
and there was a soft cough of a silenced pistol, almost lost in the
_click-click_ of the breech-action. Rand felt something sledge-hammer him
in the chest, almost knocking him down. He staggered, then swung up the
Colt he had drawn from his pocket and blazed two shots into the stairway.
There was a clatter, and the sound of feet descending