rridor he heard the closing of the door,
the scraping of the key. He was afraid the detective might follow him to
his room to heckle him further. To avoid that he hurried to the lower
floor. He wanted to be alone. He must have time to accustom himself to
this degrading fate which loomed in the too-close future. Unless they
could demolish the detective's theory he, Bobby Blackburn, would go to
the death house.

A fire blazed in the big hall fireplace. Paredes stood with his back to
it, smoking and warming his hands. A man sat in the shadow of a deep
leather chair, his rough, unpolished boots stretched toward the flaming
logs. As he came down the stairs Bobby heard the heavy, rumbling voice of
the man in the chair:

"Certainly it's a queer case, but not the way Howells means. I daresay
the old fool died what the world will call a natural death. If you smoke
so much you will, too, before long."

Bobby tried to slip past, but Paredes saw him.

"Feeling better, Bobby?"

The boots were drawn in. From the depths of the chair arose a figure
nearly gigantic in the firelight. The man's face, at first glance,
appeared to be covered with hair. Black and curling, it straggled over
his forehead. It circled his mouth, and fell in an unkempt beard down his
waistcoat. The huge man must have been as old as Silas Blackburn, but he
showed no touch of gray. His only concession to age was the sunken and
bloodshot appearance of his eyes.

Bobby and Katherine had always been afraid of this great, grim country
practitioner who had attended their childish illnesses. That sense of an
overpowering and incomprehensible personality had lingered. Even through
his graver fear Bobby felt a sharp discomfort as he surrendered his hand
to the other's absorbing grasp.

"I'm afraid you came too late this time, Doctor Groom."

The doctor looked him up and down.

"Not for you, I guess," he grumbled. "Don't you know you're sick, boy?"

Bobby shook his head.

"I'm very tired. That's all. I'm on my way to the library to try to
rest."

He freed his hand. The big man nodded approvingly.

"I'll send you a dose," he promised, "and don't you worry about your
grandfather's having been murdered by any man. I've seen the body. Stuff
and nonsense! Detective's an ass. Waiting for coroner, although I know
he's one, too."

"I pray," Bobby answered listlessly, "that you're right."

"If there's any little thing I can do," Paredes offered formally.

"No, n