he sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the half-open door
aroused Brent from these melancholy speculations; he turned to see
Bunning coming back, attended by several men, and foremost among them,
Hawthwaite, superintendent of the borough police, whom Brent had met
once or twice on his previous visits to the town. Hawthwaite, a big,
bearded man, was obviously upset, if not actually frightened; his ruddy
face had paled under the caretaker's startling news, and he drew his
breath sharply as he entered the Mayor's Parlour and caught sight of the
still figure lying across the big desk in the--middle.

"God bless my life and soul, Mr. Brent!" he exclaimed in hushed tones as
he tiptoed nearer to the dead and the living. "What's all this? You
found the Mayor dead--you and Bunning? Why--why----"

"We found him as you see him," answered Brent. "He's been murdered!
There's no doubt about this, superintendent."

Hawthwaite bent down fearfully towards the dead man, and then looked
round at Bunning.

"When did he come up here?" he asked sharply.

"About three-quarters of an hour before Mr. Brent came, sir," replied
Bunning. "He came up to me as I was standing outside the gates, smoking
my pipe, and said that he was going up to the Mayor's Parlour, and
nobody was to be allowed to disturb him, but that if his cousin, Mr.
Brent, came, he was to be shown up. Mr. Brent came and I brought him
up, and we found his Worship as you see."

"Somebody's been lying in wait for him," muttered Hawthwaite. "Hid in
this room!"

"Nobody here five minutes before he came up, sir," affirmed Bunning. "I
was up here myself. There was nobody in here, and nobody in this part of
the building."

Hawthwaite looked round the room, and Brent looked with him. It was a
big room, panelled in old oak to half the height of its walls; above the
panelling hung numerous portraits of past occupants of the Mayoral chair
and some old engravings of scenes in the town. A wide, old-fashioned
fire-place stood to the right of the massive desk; on either side of it
were recesses, in each of which there was a door. Hawthwaite stepped
across to these in turn and tried them; each was locked from the inside;
he silently pointed to the keys.

"The door to the stairs was open, sir," remarked Bunning. "I mean his
Worship hadn't locked himself in, as I have known him do."

Hawthwaite nodded. Then he nudged Brent's elbow, looking sideways at the
dead man.

"Been do