e pressed the
diaphragm to his ear. "All right," he said tersely. "Connect me. Yes!"

Delaney breathed deeply and watched his chief's face.

"Hello! Hello!" whispered Drew. "Yes," he added guardedly. "Yes,
Commissioner.... What? You say that ... that the autopsy on
Stockbridge's body--head--shows what? Repeat it! I can't quite hear
what you are saying. Louder, Commissioner! That's better. Yes--all
right now, Fosdick. It shows.... It shows that the typo cupronickel
bullet found in--in, ... repeat that.... In Stockbridge's brain was not
scored or ... or what? ... Marked? ... Wait! I don't get your
meaning.... It was lodged in the soft tissues of the.... Yes! ... I
see! Go on.... There were no rifling marks on it.... What?"

Drew turned and motioned toward the open door. Harrigan closed it
softly as the detective resumed his position at the 'phone. "Yes," he
said tersely. "Yes, Fosdick. That's important. I should say it was
important! ... New wrinkle, what? ... Why, I'd think at a quick jump
that the bullet which killed the old man wasn't fired from a regulation
revolver.... Yes, it couldn't of! ... It must have been fired from a
smooth-bore rifle or pistol!... What? ... Yes.... It seems that way to
me.... Are you dead sure?"

Drew waited. He tapped the desk with a pencil. He reached with his
right hand and pulled a sheet of paper to him. "Go on," he said slowly.
"Yes, go on, Commissioner. Oh, I've been busy! Yes. You have! Well....
I wouldn't of. No, I don't think that's the right lead at all. They're
all right. All right.... Go to it! ... Good-by, Fosdick."

The detective flipped the receiver on the hook and slowly swung the
chair. His eyes darted first at Harrigan and then rested upon Delaney's
broad face.

"That damn fool!" he exclaimed. "He's pinched the whole bunch of
servants. He's looking for the valet. The butler is under lock and key.
All that's left up there is the housekeeper and some housemaids and
Miss Loris. He better not touch her! Brass Band Fosdick! He's a mile
off the case!"

"What about that bullet, Chief?" asked Delaney.

"Oh! That's new! It's different and important. The coroner's inquest
shows--the autopsy, I mean--that the bullet found in the millionaire's
brain was a cupronickel affair of twenty-two caliber projected by
smokeless powder from a smooth-bore weapon held not more than three
inches from the old man's head."

"Whew!" whistled Delaney. "That's going some, Chief," he added, risi