The AFFAIR of the BLUE SCARAB

By W. A. SHRYER
(1876-1918)

THE cold, dismal November day was coming to a rapid close. There had been no sun since early morning, and the lowering promise of a real storm intensified and became a reality as the clocks of Detroit pointed to the hour of five.

      From a cold, cutting rain the change to sleet and then to snow was rapid, and for an hour this uncomfortable downfall silently covered the walks and hedges of the residence district. The shrubbery drooped forlornly, and the more sturdy of the late flowers gradually gave up the ghost.

      Pedestrians hurrying to the cross-street homes of North Woodward saw little of beauty in the snow, but dodged the skidding procession of motor cars with increased wariness, and shivered in their unpreparedness.

      A northbound Woodward Street car slid to a tardy stop at Burlingame Avenue, and two girls hurried to alight. Waiting but a second for a break in the honking line of speeding machines, they ran, slipping and out of breath, westward toward the middle of the block. At No. 65 the taller of the two turned into the automobile drive at the side, her companion continuing to the back entrance of the house next door.

      As the young woman belonging to No. 65 ran to her back door she shivered with the biting cold, and seemed rather startled at the somewhat forbidding aspect of the house. Not a light glowed at a single window, the wind made disconsolate noises, and the snowy bushes cast disconcerting shadows in the twilight that was fast deepening outside.

      With a scarcely perceptible show of hesitation the girl unlocked the back door, which she left open until a flood of light burst over the kitchen. She then closed the door, lit the gas under a teapot on the gas range, stepped briskly into the dining room, and turned on the light there.

      For a moment she stood in the lighted room as though listening for some sound from the long, dark hall that ran to the front door. With her hand to her mouth, she then walked slowly and with a show of dogged resolution to the front of the house, and pushed the switch controlling the cluster of lights between the two large rooms giving off the front hall. The burst of light partially illuminated both of these side rooms, and as she turned to the right she faced the library. What she saw there blanched her face with terror.

      "Oh, my God!" she moaned, slumping to the floor in a heap. As she half sat, half lay, on the floor she faced the object of her horror. It was the body of a man. Seated in an elaborate teakwood chair, he faced the door, veering unnaturally to the left, his chin on his breast and his legs sprawled awkwardly to their full length. The chair was back to a beautiful, claw-footed rosewood table.

      The girl dragged herself to her feet, furtively wiping her dry lips with the back of her hand. She skirted the chair to the side of the table, and, reaching over the end, felt the back of the man's neck with the first two fingers of her hand. "Ugh!" she panted, and, turning with a run, raced for the front door and out of it without a backward look.

      With breathless haste she ran to the back door of No. 67, rattled the knob, and half fell into the kitchen, where her companion of fifteen minutes ago was busily engaged in the preparations of the evening meal.

      "Ellen! Oh, Ellen!" sobbed the intruder. "Call your master to come quick. Something dreadful has happened to Mr. Allen."

      "All right, Georgia," gasped the astonished Ellen. "I'll go and get him right away. Whatever's the matter? You look like as if you had seen a ghost —"

      But Georgia broke in:

      "Oh, don't stop to gab; just get him, and get him quick."

      "Here, drink this, anyway," protested Ellen, handing the terror-stricken girl a glass of water. "I'll fetch Mr. Simms right away."

      In less than a minute she returned, half pushing, half pulling, a protesting little old man of at least sixty years. His bright, keen little eyes peered querulously over the tops of a large pair of old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses. With one hand he tugged to extricate a large silk handkerchief from the pocket of an absurdly long alpaca coat, and with the other scratched the back of his shiny bald head.

      "What's this? What's this?" he asked. "Can't I have a minute's peace even in my own house? Well, miss, speak up, speak up. If anything's the matter with your precious Mr. Allen, remember I'm no doctor, I'm no doctor."

      "Oh, Mr. Simms," begged the girl from next door, "I'm afraid it's too late for a doctor. And I'm afraid to go back alone. I can't go back alone — I can't, I can't."

      Soothingly, he replied:

      "There, there, my girl, no hysterics, please; I'll go over and see your precious Mr. Allen. Infernally inconvenient, but no more hysterics, mind that now," and with a grunt of disdain the wiry Mr. Simms padded out of the back door and across the yard, followed by his own servant, more terrified by the weeping of her friend than by anything she expected to find next door.

      The three entered the brightly lighted front hall.

      "Well, well, miss," complained Mr. Simms. "Why in Heaven's name don't you shut that door? Think I'm 'What's his name,' defying the elements? Where's your master now? If I've got to see him, let's get it over with."

      "Oh, he's in there," she pointed. "I can't go in, I can't, I can't."

      "Well, well, well!" grunted Mr. Simms. "You women aren't mostly so backward. Well, well, well, what's this? What's this?"

      Mr. Simms had entered and turned on the light in the library. In a moment his fidgety manner dropped from him. He glanced around with a comprehensive and studied curiosity, apparently concentrating his attention on everything else before stepping to the side of the man in the chair. He lifted the hanging right arm of the body. It dropped back inertly.

      "Ellen," he directed crisply, "get that girl into the kitchen. Then ring up Doctor Broad and tell him I want to speak to him. And be quick about it, please."

      As the panic-stricken Ellen hastened to obey her master he dropped on his knees beside the body and squinted carefully at the object he found on the floor beside the chair. It was a pearl-handled revolver. The nimble Mr. Simms noted its position with reference to the chair and to the dangling hand, but carefully refrained from touching it. He arose, dusted his knees with meticulous care, and slowly walked around the four long walls of the room.

      As Mr. Simms circled the library he expressed alternate contempt and ecstasy at the objects engaging his interested scrutiny.

      "Hum, fine taste in books, I must say — 'Arabian Nights,' unexpurgated; Boccaccio, Queen of Navarre, Daudet, Rabelais — faugh! Hum, some better — Landor, Lamb, Spencer, Tyndall, Ruskin, Darwin, Malthus. Bah! Voltaire, Swift, Ingersoll. My word! Maspero, Budge, Petrie, Wiedemann, De Morgan. Well, well!"

      "Doctor Broad is on the wire, Mr. Simms," Ellen called from the doorway, interrupting the old gentleman just as growing interest prompted an invasion of the bulging mahogany bookcases.

      "Ah, yes; thank you, Ellen," the old gentleman sighed as he stepped to the phone in the hall. "That you, Broad? This is Simms — hum — yes, Josiah Simms, No. 67 Burlingame. Want you to come right over to No. 65 Burlingame. What say — to see me? Lord, no; I've no use for you fellows. What say — sign my death certificate yet? Hum, dare say. That's all you're good for. That's what I want of you now. Dead man here. What say? How should I know? That's what I want you to tell me. Hurry now; remember the number, sixty-five, Holbrook Allen's house. Yes. Good-by."

      As Mr. Simms stepped from the phone he paused in the doorway of the library and again carefully inspected everything in it. It was a very low room and a trifle narrow for its length. This lack of proportion was accentuated by the massive bookcases that lined the north and south walls from end to end. There must have been at least five thousand volumes, nearly all in expensive editions. Three very large and very magnificent Oriental rugs covered the floor. Their value Mr. Simms tentatively appraised at four thousand dollars apiece. Between the two large windows on the east stood a mahogany buffet. It was stocked with wines, cordials, and liquors, and a box of cigars on top presented a name unfamiliar to Mr. Simms, but that was because the limit of his indulgence was two fer a quarter, while these choice Havanas cost fifty cents straight in any quantity. Three large, sleepy-hollow chairs stood invitingly close to the buffet. Behind each stood an adjustable reading light. Against the west wall on one side of the door stood a long, deep, and luxurious couch, with a reading lamp at each end. On the other side of the door was a large glass case. After scrutinizing the room thoroughly for the second time, Mr. Simms gave his undivided attention to this case.

      Whatever feelings of contempt the luxurious furniture may have aroused in the breast of Mr. Simms, the contents of the cabinet quickly dispelled. It was filled with Assyrian and Egyptian antiquities, which instantly aroused both his wonder and delight. There were cuneiform tablets from Nineveh and Babylon — priceless seals and intaglios from the Nile and Euphrates Valleys. Three shelves of such perfect and rare scarabs as Mr. Simms had never seen even in the museums of Cairo, London, or the Louvre. Tear bottles of the most dazzling iridescence from Greece and Syria, together with a collection of Egyptian jewelry and images arousing in the old man a spirit of envy that no one but a collector could possibly understand.

      With a sigh he tore himself from the contemplation of a sight that made him all but forget the cause of his presence here. He nervously wiped his shining bald head with his big silk handkerchief, and with a reluctant look behind him stepped to the table. It was a massive affair, almost seven feet long. It was clearly an antique, and by peering behind the chair in which the body of the dead man sat Mr. Simms saw a monogrammed "N." "Um," he mused, "I thought so. A genuine Napoleon I. Must have cost a pretty penny."

      From the desk he walked to the north wall and examined in turn every picture on that, and then those on the opposite wall. There were eight — four on each side — all large, mounted photographs.

      As he examined each one he commented aloud, moved it from its place on its chain hanger, looked at the back, and carefully replaced it.

      "Um, Bacchus, Baalbek, Temple of Nike, Acropolis, Temple of Athenæ, Pestum, Dier el Bahari — um — Rameses the Great from Luxor Temple, the Taj Mahal, the Sacred Lake, Karnak, the Ming Tombs. Decided Oriental flavor. Must look at that Taj Mahal again," murmured the old man, who carefully examined for the second time the picture that hung nearest the west. He stepped onto the soft couch, which brought his eyes on a level with the picture. He again moved it from the wall, peering at its back, the wall, and the molding from which the picture was suspended. He then stepped to the floor, closely examined the top of the bookcase below the picture, and grunted to himself several times.

      Finished with his scrutiny, but apparently unsatisfied with it, he walked slowly to the chair facing the heavy desk, pulled it slightly toward him, and started to seat himself.

      "Scat, you brutes!' he cried as, with a lunge, he slapped at the chair seat with his handkerchief. With spitting yowls two beautiful Persian cats sprang to the floor and disappeared rapidly into the hall. One was a large "Smoke," and the other a "Brown Tabby," but their beauty and very evident breeding were lost on the perturbed Mr. Simms. Carefully feeling on the seat for still another which he seemed to expect, he gingerly seated himself and gazed steadily at the back of the dead man's head.

      "Pretty thin on top for forty, seems to me," he mused. "Regular lady's hair, too, in its heyday. Skin's pretty pasty. Wine, women and song, I reckon."

      With a sneer of disgust he glanced at the top of the desk, and became immediately engrossed in a letter he found on the blotter there. It was written in longhand, and contained nothing on its face to justify the apparent interest devoted to its examination by the old man. There were but five lines, which contained a simple request to a firm in New York City to forward an atlas of the world.

      After gazing intently at the letter for almost three minutes, the old man arose, and, taking a small metal box from his pocket, pulled therefrom a three-foot metal tapeline. He walked to the side of the dead man and measured an imaginary line from the elbow to the wrist, and repeated the same operation on the other side. He then gazed in perplexity toward the picture of the Taj Mahal, jerked out his ever-ready handkerchief, and blew a forceful blast with his nose, scratching the back of his head with his other hand at the same time.

      "Ah, ha, um, hum," he muttered. "Hello, there's Broad, I expect!" he said as the doorbell rang.

      The doctor was admitted by the girl Ellen, who ushered him into the presence of Mr. Simms.

      "Dead man, Broad. Out of my line, so I called you. Just tell me how long he has been dead, but don't disturb anything. I'll run along then. Past my supper time. You do the honors."

      "Look here, Mr. Simms," protested the doctor, who was young, thin, and very businesslike. "What's this all about? How did it happen? No use calling me in. This man's been dead three or four hours. Rigor mortis hasn't started to set in, but he's cold as a stone."

      "Three or four hours, eh? Along about two or two thirty." The doctor was told very briefly all Mr. Simms had to tell of his being called over, after which the little old man continued: "Now you do the necessary; I'm going home. Call up the police, the coroner, or whoever you think ought to be told, and don't forget there's a hystericky girl in the kitchen. I'm taking mine home to get my supper. Good night."

      After the departure of the old man the doctor wasted no time in musings, further than to say to himself: "Queer old codger, but certainly no fool. Where's that telephone now?"

      Calling to the somewhat sobered maid, he was directed to the telephone. Securing a number, he asked: "This you, lieutenant? Doctor Broad speaking. You'd better come to No. 65 Burlingame at once. There's a dead man here. What? No, I don't think so. Looks more like suicide. You attend to the coroner. I'll wait for you. Fifteen minutes? All right."

      The doctor thought for a moment or two, and then, ringing up a second number, said: "That you, Bennett? Think there's a pretty fair story for you at No. 65 Burlingame. There's a victim of sudden death here. May or may not be suicide, but the setting is certainly luxurious. Rich and cultured, all that sort of thing, you know. Don't mention it. Just called up Lieutenant Reed. He'll beat you by fifteen minutes, so come as soon as you can. Good-by."

      The doctor returned to the library, and, selecting a book from the heavily laden cases, composed himself to wait. He had read hardly a chapter when the lieutenant and a plain-clothes man arrived.

      "Gimme the facts, doc," said the lieutenant, to which he listened with attention.

      "Where's the old guy?" he asked next.

      "He said he was hungry," replied the doctor, "and returned home twenty minutes ago."

      "You get him over here, George," directed the lieutenant to his subordinate. "Looks simple enough," he added. "Croaked himself with this .38. No sign of any trouble, and not a piece of evidence that ain't clear as a brass button. Some place they got here, too. Must be a rich guy. What do you know about him?"

      "I never heard of him before, lieutenant, and don't know the first thing about him now. Old man Simms may, though."

      "All right, George will have him here in a jiffy. Let's quiz that K. M. while we're waiting. I say, girl," he called, raising his voice.

      Red-eyed and shaky, the maid entered the room, edging away from the dead body as far as possible. "Yes, sir," she said meekly.

      "Speak up now. Tell us all about it," commanded the police official.

      "There's very little to tell, sir," she replied. "This was my afternoon out, and Miss Linn and myself went downtown together about a quarter of two. We went to a movie after buying some things we needed. We got home at ten minutes after six."

      "Hold on!" interrupted the officer. "How'd you know it was just ten minutes after six?"

      "I looked at the kitchen clock the minute I got in, sir. I knew I was late, and thought it was later than it was," replied the girl.

      "All right; go on," growled the policeman.

      "That's about all, sir. I came right in and started to light up, as the house was all dark. I saw Mr. Allen as soon as I lit the hall light. It gave me an awful scare, sir, but I walked up to him to be sure I wasn't wrong, and when I touched him I knew something dreadful was the matter, and ran right out to get help."

      "You ain't the only servant in this big house, are you?" queried Reed.

      "No, sir," replied the maid. "There's a chauffeur, a laundress who comes Tuesdays and Fridays, and a man who tends to the furnace every morning and evening."

      "Where is this chauffeur?"

      "He drove Miss Allen downtown about half past one. She said they would be back for dinner," replied the maid. "They ought to be here any minute now."

      "Mrs. Allen is his wife, then?" queried the officer, pointing to the dead body in the chair.

      "No, sir," replied the maid. "I said Miss Allen. She is Mr. Allen's sister."

      "Oh, I see," replied her questioner. "Who's this Miss Linn you spoke of?"

      "She's Mr. Simms' Ellen next door, sir."

      "To be sure," replied Reed. "Well, why were you in such a pucker about being ten minutes late, since you didn't expect your mistress back until much later?"

      "I didn't say I didn't expect her back till much later, did I?" The maid was slowly but surely losing her temper under the close checking up of her replies. "I said I thought I was later than I was."

      "That's all right, missy," the lieutenant attempted to say soothingly. "I forgot that's just what you did say. What time does this guy come every day to fix the furnace?"

      "At five o'clock in the morning, and between half past six and seven in the evening," replied the girl, with no evidence of being mollified.

      "Oh," exclaimed the detective, "then he is past due now; it's almost a quarter past seven. He ain't been here by any chance before I got here?"

      "No, not a chance," the girl replied shortly. "And he won't be here, either. He quit yesterday."

      "How do you know that?" Reed asked in a tone he clearly desired to sound impressive.

      "That's how Mr. Allen came to be home. Miss Allen told me he had put in an ad for another man, and that he would stay here to hire him."

      "Was Mr. Allen alive and all right when you left at two thirty?" The question stiffened the maid at once.

      "He was alive all right, and as cranky as usual, if that answers your question," the girl shot back.

      "So," drawled the detective. "Well, let's answer the first part first. How do we know he was alive?"

      "I don't know or care how you know he was alive, but I can tell you how I and Ellen knew he was alive," snapped the girl vindictively. "We'd just started around the house to leave when a man came with a bottle of brandy Mr. Allen had ordered over the phone. I guess he was in a particular hurry for it, which ain't unusual, so he came to the front door."

      "I guess that answers both parts of my question," mused the officer. "Just go to the door, will you, miss? I think I hear George coming back with the old party."

      "Hello, doc; hello, lieut," called a cheery voice from the hall. A very cocksure young gentleman literally breezed in, shaking the proffered hand of the doctor with vigor and forcing a reluctant welcome from the police officer. "Johnny on the spot, lieut. Where's the corpus delicti?"

      Before the lieutenant was given time for a fitting rebuke, the doorbell rang again. Pushing ahead of the maid, a young lady walked rapidly into the library, and before the startled trio could prevent it faced the stark-dead body in the teakwood chair.

      "My God!" she gasped. "He's done it!" And before any one could catch her she fell in a dead faint on the floor.

      "Here, you!" shouted the lieutenant to the terrified maid in the doorway. "Oh, thunder!" he continued, as the maid suddenly burst into violent hysterics. "You, Bennett, drag that skirt out of here. You, doc, do something. This dame's out for fair."

      "Best thing that could happen," the doctor calmly replied. "Catch hold of her feet and we'll move her across the hall. Hello, here's George back again. Just light up in the room across the hall, George. That's good, lieutenant. Let her rest on this couch, and put those pillows under her knees. She'll recover in a few minutes. You just run across and see if the girl is all right, and send Bennett in to me."

      The lieutenant and his subordinate seemed glad of the chance to get away. The elegance of the young woman very evidently overawed them. The doctor called to Bennett, who assisted him in removing a long cloak of sable and a strikingly stylish hat with a most magnificent spray of white aigrets.

      "Some glad rags, doc," interjected the irrepressible Mr. Bennett, gazing admiringly at the hat and cloak. "Must have stood somebody five thousand iron men, if it set 'em back a single bean. Some swell looker at that, eh?"

      "Sh!" admonished the physician. "Get me a glass of water. She'll be coming around any minute. If that girl's cooled off, bring her with you."

      The maid had evidently mastered her attack of nerves, for she appeared with the water as the doctor spoke. The young woman also showed signs of a rapid return to consciousness, and the doctor gave a few simple directions to the servant and pulled his young friend into the hall, closing the door after them.

      "Slip me the dope, doc," whispered the young reporter. "It's going to be some story; you were right about that."

      The doctor rapidly communicated everything he knew to the newspaper man, who attempted at the same time to listen to the lieutenant and the policeman, who had returned to the library.

      "The old guy won't come over, eh?" the lieutenant was saying. "Well, what do you know about that?"

      "No, kept me talking for twenty minutes, and his story jibed with the doc's to a dot, but he wouldn't come over; said he and the lady here weren't exactly on speaking terms. Said she claimed his dog chased her cats and that she was in the habit of taking a shot at his pup every time he got on her lawn. Queer old party, but perfectly harmless."

      "I'll see to him myself later on. You go call up the coroner's office and find out what's the matter somebody ain't up here long since," directed the lieutenant. "Here's Miss Allen. You run along."

      The young lady, visibly distressed, but thoroughly self-possessed, had opened the door, and, supported by the maid, made her way very slowly into the library.

      "My maid has told me that she found Mr. Allen dead, and that you are here because of that." She spoke very slowly and very carefully. "I assume that you will want to ask some questions, but this has been a terrible shock to me, as you may doubtless recognize, so please spare my feelings as much as you can."

      "Certainly, Miss Allen," replied the officer. "Just sit down and take things easy."

      The young lady was dressed faultlessly, and by a tailor who had brought out every line of her seductive figure. She was small, but plump, with beautiful blond hair, marceled. She might have been thirty, or possibly less, but the careful accentuation of her every charm insured a degree of masculine interest to which the cynical would instantly declare she was far from indifferent.

      "She's certainly a copious beauty," whispered Bennett to the doctor as they stood in the hall.

      "Don't lose your heart, my son," the doctor whispered back. "Her eyes are too far apart to insure connubial felicity, and when you combine that with those voluptuous lips look out for squalls."

      Whether the lieutenant's deductions were the same as the physician's or not, it was evident that he preferred allowing the mistress of the house the first word. His silence must have disconcerted the young woman, for at last she asked:

      "Won't you ask me what you wish to have me tell you, please? I feel the need of immediate repose."

      "Well, madam, or I should say, miss," replied the officer, "we were called here, as you know, and find your brother dead. The doctor there has made no physical examination, but it is pretty plain to us that Mr. Allen was shot in the left breast. This gun was on the floor, within a few inches of his right hand as it hangs over the chair. Did you ever see it before?"

      Miss Allen shuddered, and declined to take the revolver as the officer extended it to her.

      "Yes — oh, yes," she stammered. "I know it perfectly. It is my own, but you will find it to be loaded with blanks. I bought it to frighten that horrid little dog next door. He was continually barking, and chased my beautiful Persian cats."

      Lieutenant Reed actually flushed as he caught the gleam of derision in Bennett's eyes.

      "Hem, hem," he grumbled. "We've been so busy looking after that hysterical girl I haven't had a chance to even break this gun. Well, what do you know about that?" he exclaimed, as, suiting the action to his words, he broke the breech and looked at the five shells automatically extracted. Four of the shells were unexploded blank cartridges, but the fifth was empty.

      "Let's have a look, lieut," the young reporter interrupted. "This empty doesn't match the blanks at all. It's either newer or a lighter shade of copper."

      "Where was this gun kept, Miss Allen?" asked the officer.

      "In the left-hand corner of the French desk there," she replied.

      The policeman stepped around and opened the drawer indicated by the young woman. There were several boxes of pens, paper clips, pins, and a miscellany of writing supplies. In the front right-hand corner the officer saw. a box of fifty .38-caliber cartridges. He opened the box. The even rows of shells disclosed two missing. He compared one of the cartridges with the empty shell. They were identical.

      "Did these cartridges belong to you, too?" he asked.

      "No, I never saw them before. Winthrop must have placed them there," she faltered.

      "Have you any reason to think he was likely to do such a thing?"

      "He has complained of trouble with his stomach, and though I hate to say it he has been drinking rather heavily of late, and I have had a strong suspicion for some time that he has been using drugs. He has been extremely cross and irritable, and at times somewhat despondent. He has never given me any reason to apprehend that he would attempt to end his life, although he has said and done some very strange things. I have tried repeatedly to get him to a physician, but he resented every suggestion of that kind very strongly. It was this reluctance, more than anything else, which strengthened my suspicions regarding his use of drugs." The young woman gave this explanation with a growing appearance of determination. Her eyes became hard, and her entire aspect as she finished was not pretty to look upon. There could be no doubt as to her feelings. If she felt grief, there was a much stronger current of emotion gaining ground.

      Before the lieutenant could ask her any further questions the doorbell rang. A fat, sleek-looking little man with a black leather bag under his arm entered the room with a hesitating, apologetic air.

      "Well, doc," exclaimed the officer, "it took you long enough to get here."

      "Couldn't be helped, lieutenant," apologized the newcomer. "We skidded at the corner of Grand Boulevard, and it took us quite a time to repair our tire. Blow-out."

      "Good night for a blow-out," grumbled the detective. "George, you talk with Miss Allen in the next room — will your — so the doc can get busy here." As the young woman retired with manifest relief the officer whispered hurriedly to his assistant, who nodded and followed Miss Allen to the hall, closing the door after them.

      "Well, doc," bustled the lieutenant, "take a slant at the body as she lays before we lift it to that couch so you can finish up and get us out of here."

      The coroner's assistant fingered the costly clothes of the dead man almost with envy, nodded as the officer pointed to the powder-scorched hole in the fine silk shirt, and deftly removed the handsome, quilted silk dressing jacket. He then removed the shirt and a silken undergarment as the officer supported the body in the chair.

      Stripped to the waist, the dead man certainly presented a repulsive picture. His face and thinly covered head were pasty and sallow, with the blotches of dissipation clearly indicative of a loose moral character. Almost six feet long as they stretched the body on the couch, it presented an appearance of emaciation, while the long, thin arms were dotted with numerous red spots.

      "Dope," the coroner commented.

      Probing the neat blue hole in the left mammillary region, he closed his eyes thoughtfully. "Ball's there," he commented. "In the heart, and, I should say, lodged in the posterior wall of the right ventrical. Death was instantaneous. Very little bleeding."

      Removing his probe and arising to his feet, he looked at Doctor Broad. "Dead about four hours, I should say, doctor?"

      "So I judged," replied Doctor Broad. "Dead open-and-shut case, ain't it, doc?" queried the detective. "Shot himself in that chair. Dope and booze, despondent and all that sort of thing, eh?"

      "Looks like it," replied the doctor carelessly. "That's about all I can do now. I'll run along and report. Good night, everybody."

      After a few curious glances at the body during the examination by the coroner's assistant, the young reporter had busied himself with an examination of the drawers in the large French table. He had made a note of several things he found to interest him, and, as the physician was packing his small bag, approached the body and gazed down at the left hand with sudden attention.

      "Wait a minute, doc!" he exclaimed. "Look at that left hand. Tight as a monkey wrench. Better open it up, what?"

      The physician reluctantly turned to the body, and, examining the clenched left hand for the first time, pried the fingers loose with the greatest difficulty. The four men bent forward and looked at each other with undisguised perplexity as the physician plucked from the dead man's grasp a small, oblong object, possibly three-quarters of an inch long, convex on top and flat on the bottom. It was blue, mottled with grayish white, and roughly carved in imitation of a beetle's back. On the bottom, surrounded by an elongated circle, were daintily carved several cabalistic figures, a full moon, a small serpent, and ears or horns, and a small bird or young chick.

      "Now what!" exclaimed the lieutenant.

      "Scarab," spoke up Bennett, making a number of notes on his sheet of copy paper. "Case full of 'em over there. Prized 'em highly, evidently. Some folks go batty over 'em. Ruling passion strong in death, and all that sort of thing."

      "Regular bug, eh?" grumbled the detective. "Guess you can beat it now if you want to, doc."

      "I'll be going, too," said Doctor Broad. "You may give me a ride as far as Bethune, if you will, doctor. Good night, everybody."

      As the two departed the detective called to his assistant, who entered and closed the door.

      "Anything new, George?" he asked.

      "Nothing much. Miss Allen says she left at one thirty with the chauffeur, as she had a date with young Bedford, the automobile man, to go to the Detroit Opera House. Went to Newcomb-Endicott's and Hudson's, and left the machine at two thirty, meeting her young guy at the door of the opera house. Got out at about five o'clock, and was met by the chauffeur, who drove 'em to the Pontchartrain for tea. Said she danced for an hour or so, stayed longer than she expected, and drove home with Bedford, who left her at the front walk. Chauffeur drove him home, and ain't got back yet. Drove him out to the New Golf Club."

      "What did she have to say about Mr. Allen staying home to hire a man?" queried the detective.

      "Said he told her the man had quit to work at Ford's, and that Mr. Allen had put an ad in the morning's Herald, and intended to stay home and hire the best man who answered. She said he usually went downtown in the afternoons. Didn't know what he did with his time, as he slept late every morning and beat it right after lunch as a rule. Said they had plenty of money, which Mr. Allen spent some time in looking after, but that he had little to really do at any time."

      "I say, lieut," interrupted young Bennett. "Think I'll run along and get out a story on this for the eleven o'clock. Better play it up as a sure suicide, eh?"

      "Sure," grunted the officer. "George and I'll stick around a while. Want to see the old guy next door, and straighten things out here. I'll call you up if we find anything suspicious."

      "All right. Oh, I'll laud your untiring zeal and all that sort of thing. By the way, let me take that scarab, lieut. I'd like to have some photos made and play it up in the story, I'll give it back to you to-morrow."

      "Oh, all right," grudgingly acceded the officer. "Can't see what you can write about it to interest anybody, though."

      Bennett returned to the office of the Herald, and for an hour extended himself on the kind of story he loved to write. Of the dead man he said but little, except to describe the position of the body, the single exploded shell, and a few glowing paragraphs regarding the "wealthy and eccentric Oriental collector" and the magnificence of his home. Having photographs of the scarab prepared, however, he found in a history of Egypt that the characters on the specimen found in the dead man's hand exactly corresponded to the royal cartouche of the great pyramid builder Khufu, or Cheops, and on this discovery he based the most flowery portion of his story.

      As an exposition of the great Egyptian builders his effort was a masterpiece, as all the "boys" admitted. He described the charm as a lapis lazuli scarab of the great Cheops, and drew a fervid comparison between the dead king reposing for centuries in his great tomb and the man of to-day clutching in his dead hand the reminder of everlasting life so highly prized by the ancient forerunners of a great civilization. He cast a fanciful prediction of the dead man's last thought before grasping in one hand the ancient symbol of resurrection and in the other the modern weapon that was to loose his harried spirit to the peace of oblivion. The city editor smiled as he read the story, but it went on the front page.

      After reading proof of his story, the enterprising Mr. Bennett retired to his hall bedroom on Alfred Street with a feeling of considerable self-satisfaction. His dreams were peaceful, and his return the following Friday afternoon at two p. m. was a duty not unmixed with pleasant expectation. He accepted the congratulations of his fellow reporters with condescending dignity, and received a message from the city editor to "see the chief at once" with a feeling that at last his genius had been fittingly recognized.

      Composing his features into a semblance of modest self-depreciation, he entered the sanctum of the managing editor with a confident mien. That august director of his destiny scowled over his horn-rimmed glasses.

      "Ah, Bennett, sit down," he said. "Just read this through, will you?"

      The M. E. handed to the young reporter an envelope postmarked "12 M." Bennett withdrew the letter it contained, and read as follows:

      "Phew!" whistled Bennett. "I wonder what I ever did to that guy?"

      "I am afraid you have again allowed your feeling of self-esteem to blind you to the importance of a more careful examination of self-evident facts," retorted the managing editor. "It may or may not be important in this case that the object found in the hand of the dead man was a genuine scarab of fabulous value, or whether it was an imitation scarab of no value whatever. It is an extremely important fact, however, that this paper has announced, before the holding of a coroner's jury, that Mr. Allen is a suicide, because some of the evidence tends to show that he might have shot himself. If Mr. Allen is left-handed, how did he shoot himself to instant death with his left hand, drop the instrument of death on his right side, and then grasp again in his left hand the object you found him to be clasping?"

      "Well, what do you know about that!" exclaimed Bennett.

      "I don't know a thing about it," rebuked his superior. "That is the first thing for you to investigate. When you have done that T shall have something else for you to do. While you are about it your investigations will doubtless throw you in touch with some one able, even if unwilling, to tell you something of the antecedents of this Mr. Allen and his household. I have a little personal knowledge of one or two recent operations of his, and on that account I shall take a personal interest in this case. You will send me the first report of any and everything you learn. Now get!"

      The irrepressible Mr. Bennett might have been expected to feel some diminution of confidence after this unexpected turn of his interview with his chief. If he felt any, however, he certainly didn't show it. He whistled gayly as he made his way toward the North Woodward Street cars, and during the half hour's ride to Burlingame Avenue spent the time with perfect satisfaction to himself by perusing for the third time the two-column, first-page story written by him the night before.

      On arriving at No. 65, he found no one at home but the maid. Having achieved a certain facility in the capacity of what he would have characterized as a "modern Don Juan," he experienced no particular difficulty in effecting a successful working basis with the girl Georgia. After the passage of his high-speed gallantries it was no time at all before she was willing to assure him that her late master was certainly left-handed. He always took his coffee and tea on the left side, wrote with his left hand, and went so far on occasions as to throw books at her with the same. His temper lately had been "something awful"; she wondered she had stood it as long as she had.

      It developed that her stay with the Allens had covered a period of about eight months. When she came, there had been a better understanding between Mr. Allen and his sister, apparently. Of late, however, it had been more or less strained, reacting on her and every one else in the establishment. It was her opinion, gathered from stray bickerings she could "hardly help overhearing," that these misunderstandings had arisen over certain divisions of sums of money, why or what she didn't know.

      As to how long they had lived at No. 65 she didn't know. They sometimes spoke in her hearing of having lived in London before coming to Detroit, but that meant little or nothing, as they had traveled everywhere, apparently. So far as she knew, Mr. Allen had few, if any, friends, though Miss Allen was rather gay and spent a good deal of time at tea dances, being brought home by very prosperous individuals, who never came into the house excepting at rare intervals. She had gathered that most of them were in the automobile business, but did not know the names of any of them.

      Satisfied that he had secured all the information he could reasonably expect, Mr. Bennett returned and sent in word to the chief that he was ready to report. The managing editor did not keep him waiting, listened to his story, and gave him immediate directions for further investigations.

      "You'll have to go back there later and have an interview with Miss Allen. I doubt your having as much success with the mistress as you have had with the maid, but you will try your best to secure some information of a definite character as to whence they came and why," said the M. E. sternly. "In the meantime I shall tell you something I do not wish you to repeat. I am telling it to you because it will help you to handle more intelligently the assignment I am about to give you."

      "Yes, sir," replied Bennett meekly enough.

      "A few months ago I secured an inside tip that Universal Motors was bound to take a very sudden and very large rise on a certain date. There have been several such rises, several such tips, and several such big jumps in that stock, but in this particular case no one was supposed to know a thing about it, and to the best of my belief no one acted upon it in Detroit in any very large way except one man, and that man was Mr. Allen. He beat me to a local firm of brokers by six hours, and as I was not dealing in margins, but wanted the stock, his large purchase beat me out of at least one hundred and twenty thousand dollars on an investment of less than twenty thousand dollars. Now, I want you to go to those brokers and tell them I want to know all they know about this man. I also want to know where he banks. The banks will be closed when you get that information, for the brokers will give it when you explain it is a personal favor to me as editor of this paper. You will then go to the bank or banks they mention to you, and at each you will secure the amount of this man's deposit and all they can tell you about him. You may make the same explanation to them that you will give the brokers, who are Bell, Mead & Co., in the Ford Building. Now, hustle and get back here with the information as fast as you can."

      It was all the same to the young reporter whomever he might interview, and his reception by Mr. Bell, of the firm of Bell, Mead & Co., accorded well with his own sense of importance. When Mr. Bell learned that the editor of the Herald asked a favor in the name of that paper, the office boy himself would have secured it. Bennett soon learned enough to make him "sit up and take notice." He was told by Mr. Bell that they knew little or nothing about Mr. Allen, except that he had called on them in May, 1928, stating that he had seen an advertisement of theirs suggesting the purchase of a certain motor stock. As the purpose of that advertisement was to secure customers with the money to buy, it was a matter of no concern to them who the customer was, so long as he produced the cash with order.

      Mr. Allen, it seemed, did have the money. He ordered a purchase of one thousand shares of Blessington stock, and paid for it in cash on the nail. In the course of several months he bought other motor stocks. At three separate times he had bought Universal before spectacular advances, and in each case the stocks commenced to rise within two days of his purchases. It had become a habit in their office to trail every buy he made. He was, Mr. Bell might say, their best and biggest customer, and the only customer of any note of whom they knew nothing except that he seemed infallible.

      Consulting his books, Mr. Bell advised Bennett that from May 12, 1928, to November 16, 1929, they had bought and sold to Mr. Allen's account the sum of one million six hundred and twelve thousand one hundred and thirty-two dollars and eighty-six cents. He kept a balance in cash to his credit with them of exactly twenty thousand dollars at all times. On every sale they paid him at once down to that balance. At his request, they had introduced him to the National Bank of Commerce and to the First National. He presumed his accounts were kept in those two banks.

      "By the way," asked Mr. Bennett, just as he was leaving, "do you happen to know whether Mr. Allen was left-handed?"

      "Yes, he was left-handed," replied Mr. Bell. "Here is an order in his own handwriting we received five days ago. You can see that no right-handed man ever wrote it."

      "Thanks," replied Bennett, hastening to the First National Bank.

      It was after banking hours, but he had no trouble in securing admittance to the side door. Also he had no difficulty in securing an interview with one of the vice presidents. The latter knew nothing of Mr. Allen, but spoke to several of the officials still busy at their desks. None knew a thing about him, either, but the A to G bookkeeper supplied enough information to satisfy the newspaper investigator.

      "Yes, I handle that account," the bookkeeper said, after he had been turned over to the tender mercies of Bennett by the vice president. "He was introduced by Bell, Mead & Co., but I don't think anybody here knows anything about him further than that. However, a five-hundred-thousand-dollar balance is quite a sufficient recommendation in itself, eh?"

      "Would be for me," answered the reporter pertly. "Any other little thing of interest about his account except the half million?"

      "Yes, there is," said the bookkeeper, instinctively lowering his voice. "The account was started in July, 1928, as a joint account in the names of Holbrook and Alice Allen, checks on it to be honored when signed by either. In July of this year Alice Allen relinquished her checking interest, and it was put in the individual name of Holbrook Allen. On the first of November it was changed back again to a joint account. Nothing has been withdrawn since October 30th, I see."

      "Thanks, very much," bowed Bennett. "By the way, was Mr. Allen left-handed?"

      "Sure he was," replied the bookkeeper somewhat in surprise. "He's the only left-handed check writer on the A to G ledgers, too, peculiarly enough. How did you know?"

      "Didn't; just occurred to me to ask," answered the reporter. "By-by."

      In the National Bank of Commerce he secured practically the same information, except that the sum on deposit there was found to total eight hundred and forty thousand dollars and to average about seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the entire time they had had the account on the books.

      "Well," mused the investigator as he hurried back to the office, "if he croaked himself, he must be ambidextrous, and he surely couldn't have been worrying much about the high cost of living."

      The managing editor heard his subordinate's report in silence, and made no comment after it was finished except to say:

      "I'll write the story for to-morrow myself. Tell the city editor to put you on something else, but show up here to-morrow at twelve thirty."

      There was considerable surprise in the editorial rooms when it became noised about that the chief himself was writing a murder follow-up. There was more surprise when the story itself was read. It contained but brief mention of the tragedy, to the effect that the police department wished a correction made of the preceding day's story. The police had authorized no official conclusion that Mr. Allen had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. As a matter of fact, the surroundings seemed to indicate that Mr. Allen had shot himself with a pistol held in his right hand, whereas it was learned that Mr. Allen was left-handed.

      Extended reference, however, was made to the scarab found in the left hand of the victim. A very scholarly dissertation on scarabs followed, with all the available proof regarding the specimen found being a barefaced imitation. A number of corrections in relation to Egyptian beliefs and customs were apparent to those able to understand and follow the article, which was long, and, to many, interesting.

      Young Mr. Bennett read the story of his superior on his way down the next morning. "Well," he commented, "seems to me I did a lot of running around for a million and a quarter all for nothing. Wonder if he'll send me to Pontiac this morning."

      As the reporter entered the editorial rooms the chief was talking to the telephone operator.

      "If Lieutenant Reed calls up again, tell him I just arrived, and immediately connect him with me," he was saying. "Ah, Bennett, come to my office at once."

      "Read that," he continued as they entered his sanctum.

      "That" proved to be a second communication from "Antiquarian," and was as follows:

      "By gosh, chief," exclaimed Bennett, "my hunch was dead right! I wondered if you were about to hike me to Pontiac, and this letter begins to look like it. This guy's sure balmy."

      "I didn't take the trouble to show you that letter in order to secure your idle comments," the chief commented severely. "I hope I have not given you credit for more sense than you actually possess. Please concentrate your entire attention to that paragraph in reference to the Taj Mahal and kindly tell me, if you can, just what possible light it may throw on this problem."

      "Lord love you, chief!" remonstrated Bennett. "If you were to give me the third degree, I couldn't tell you whether it meant a shot of hop or a shell of suds."

      "And I suppose you expect to make a newspaper man some day," sighed the editor. "The Taj Mahal is one of the wonders of the world. It is a mausoleum at Agra in India. I shall show you a picture of it in the encyclopedia. Does that assist your feeble cerebration in any manner?"

      "I get you, chief," gleefully responded Bennett. "I've seen a lot of these pictures. There's a dandy in Allen's library, by the way."

      "Ah, there is, eh?" exclaimed the managing editor. "Well, I'm glad you're good for something. Now listen. I don't know who is writing these letters, and of course you don't, but he isn't writing them for nothing. This reference to Taj Mahal means something very definite, I am sure. Now what does he say? 'A look behind the scenes at Taj Mahal.' The first thing that naturally occurs to me is that there is a message or letter or something of that nature hidden in the back of the picture. You will have to go out there and find out. Use your head. If you can't find anything, try to impress on your mind everything, everything, mind you, that is in any way worth noticing about that picture or around it. Then come back and tell me what you find. Contrive to be there alone, and don't touch a thing unless you are alone. Nobody knows what that girl may say or do, if she should happen to let you in. Now off with you and hurry back."

      As Bennett hastened away from the M. E., the latter's telephone bell tinkled. "Yes, lieutenant," he answered. "No, I wasn't taking any liberties with the department, Reed. I learned that we had made an error in rushing into print on that story and calling it a suicide. I am very sure the man was murdered. I tried to get you to explain, but couldn't reach you either at your office or at home. You won't hold any hard feelings when you learn everything, lieutenant. By the merest chance I happened to secure some very important information, and what I used this morning will give you a chance to turn a good trick and nobody the wiser. Come on down. It will be worth your while. Good-by."

      The editor attempted to busy himself with routine affairs, but with ill success. He looked nervously at his watch every few moments. "Should have told that boy to telephone me. Hope he has that much sense," he muttered. "Well, I can put off seeing Reed till I do hear from him."

      His bell rang. "A police officer to see you, sir. And Mr. Bennett on the wire to speak to you."

      "Connect me with Bennett at once. Tell the gentleman I'll see him in five minutes. Hello, hello, Bennett. Yes, speak up."

      "Hello, chief!" Bennett's voice shrilled excitedly over the wire. "The bug's there, chief. It was dead easy The maid let me in and went upstairs to call Miss Allen, who was taking a nap. Walked right in and looked at the back of that picture. What'd you think, chief! There's a bullet hole there new as paint. Dug it out with my penknife. Yes, it's a .38, too. Picture had been moved over about three inches to cover the hole. Dust on the molding on either side of the place where the hanger was before. Couldn't wait, chief. Had to call you up. Be right down with the bullet. So long, chief."

      "Ah!" sighed the editor. "Hello, Miss Grace. Send Mr. Reed in, will you, please?"

      "Welcome, lieutenant," he greeted the frowning police officer. "Glad to see you."

      "Say, where do I get off on this double-cross stuff?" growled Reed.

      "Now, just forget it, lieutenant," soothed the editor. "I've done you the best turn you ever had happen to you. That Allen business is a case of murder, and not suicide, and if it hadn't been for sheer luck you'd have put your foot in it. As it is, I have the proof, and have framed it all up for you in advance."

      "Well, I'll listen, but you have got to show me," replied Reed.

      The lieutenant was told all of the essential facts learned by Bennett under the guidance -of his chief, the only reservation observed by the editor being a refusal to state the source of the information which had made his investigations possible.

      "You win," uttered the officer. "Granting the facts, they kind of make me out a big dub, don't they?"

      "No, they don't," replied the editor. "Every fact we've picked up has been due to mere chance, as I told you before. Anyway, nobody is going to know a thing about it. You go right ahead from here on and claim all the credit."

      "That's mighty white of you," Reed replied. "But look here. There ain't a single fall guy in sight. Now who done it? The only possible motive is for this here Miss Allen to get all that coin, and at that she could have drawn it, anyway, and ducked without any killing. Besides, I checked up her story and it's exactly two by four. She did leave about one thirty. She did go to Newcomb's and to Hudson's, and charged stuff at both places. She did go to the Detroit Opera House, and she did go to the "Ponch' with young Bedford, and stayed with him till she blew in about seven thirty. I've checked her up at every step, and I've checked up the maid. Every door was locked and every window was fastened. He was all alone. It wasn't no inside job, I'm sure of that, and if it was an outside job, who did it?"

      "Now, my dear lieutenant," smiled the editor, "I'm no detective; I'm just a common, garden-variety editor trying to keep his paper from making a monumental error, and at the same time do the police department of this city a good turn. I haven't an idea in the world who did it. I have a suspicion I may fall on to an idea or two in the next few days, but if I do it will be pure chance, just as I have assured you the rest has been."

      "Well, I don't know, but it seems to me you got a lot of dope mighty easy," the officer replied dejectedly. "Oh, hello, Bennett, anything further the boss hasn't sprung on me?"

      "Not a thing, lieut. Say, chief, that guy —"

      "Sh!" warned the editor.

      "I get you, chief," grinned the reporter.

      "The lieutenant here has checked up all the stories, and finds everybody in sight has a perfect alibi. Wants us to pick out a nice, soft goat for him. You've been pretty busy on the job. Suggest somebody for Mr. Reed."

      "Well, lieut," suggested the boy, "if everything else fails, you can lay it on one of those furnacemen looking for a job."

      "Sure!" exclaimed the officer. "I never thought of that. You just cook up a nice story along that line. Party or parties unknown. Police on the lookout for suspicious parties seen answering an ad, and so forth. You know the dope. Give us a chance to get busy and commit us to nothin' at all. Eh?"

      "All right, lieut. Use that over your say-so?" queried the reporter. "No leaks now; this is to be our scoop for to-morrow morning. Rich millionaire murdered. Foxy Reed runs down tough clew and so forth."

      "Sure, go to it," replied the now smiling detective. "And be sure to slip me the new dope as it turns up."

      "All right, lieut. So long."

      The editor turned to his desk with the smile gone. "All right, Bennett. Write it up just that way. Be rather vague. Glittering generalities about vast wealth and so forth, and salve the lieutenant a bit. Can't do any harm, and may do some good. Get out. I'm busy. That was a quick bit of work you did. Thank you for telephoning me so promptly."

      "All right, chief. I get you. Much obliged."

      The reporter worked steadily on the morrow's scoop. Credit for the finding of the bullet was generously allowed Lieutenant Reed, and an interview with this doughty official foretold an early apprehension of a nameless miscreant, whose probable vocation in life was answering "Help Wanted" ads with the sole purpose of murdering wealthy employers of domestic labor. It was finished in less than an hour and submitted by Bennett to the chief.

      The managing editor read the copy with alternate smiles and frowns. He blue-penciled and corrected freely. "Send it down and leave word that I am to read the proof," he directed. "And by the way, Bennett, how did you improve the shining hour when Miss Allen did appear this afternoon?"

      "Oh, yes," he replied, "I forgot to tell you. I told her that Mr. Allen was such a wealthy man we ought to have some biographical data to run after this scare stuff was over, and. asked her where they came from and all that."

      "Well, what did she say?"

      "She said they were English, but explained that as a matter of fact they had traveled most of the time during the past ten years, going almost anywhere and becoming, as she expressed it, 'strictly cosmopolitan.' When they were living in London, however, the name of their street was St. John's Road or St. John's Wood or something like that. It was near some famous cricket joint or other. I remember she told me that as though I ought to know all about it."

      "Did she say how they came to be here?"

      "Yes, she said an uncle of theirs had died in Australia, leaving them fifty thousand pounds, and that when they felt it was best to leave England they decided they would come to America and invest the money in some of our wonderful industries. As she told it, I wasn't near so much interested as I was in getting off to telephone you about that bullet, but as I look back on it now it seems to me a lot of it was bunk. Anyhow, she had it all down pat, if you get me, chief?"

      "I get you, Bennett," replied the chief soberly. "Now, I wonder if you could get me a picture of the lady? I don't think I have ever seen her, but a picture might bring some association to my mind."

      "I can try, chief," Bennett replied. "I've got a date to take Georgia to a movie to-night. 'Romeo and Juliet.' Romance and all that sort of thing, you know. I'll call her up and ask if she can't cop off a picture for me. I thought I ought to kind of keep in touch with the situation, you know, chief." The latter was in the nature of an apology.

      "Go ahead. Get me a picture by to-morrow and I'll see your salary is raised a dollar a week."

      "You're on, chief; I've got that bean in my kick right now."

      "Get out. I'm busy."

      Within ten minutes the chief was disturbed by the impertinent entrance of Bennett's head in his doorway. "I say, chief. We both forgot. That's a Sunday beat we got, and I ain't working to-morrow. Extend that bet till Monday, will you?"

      "All right, my boy," smiled the chief. "I do just that. Ill give you until Monday at two p. m." "Thanks. — I'll be there with the goods. You just leave it to me."

      Sunday and even Monday morning dragged somewhat for both the managing editor and Bennett. For the former because he wondered what "Antiquarian" would have to suggest, and for the latter because he had earned his raise and burned to prove it.

      Both beat the clock by two hours, and met in the elevator at noon. "I got it and then some," Bennett whispered to the chief."

      "Good!" the latter whispered back.

      As they entered the chief's private office, Bennett drew out a cabinet photograph and triumphantly flourished it. "Just take a peek, chief."

      The picture was an excellent group of five people. It was evidently a holiday picture, with an imitation bathing beach in the background. There were two ladies and three men, the former in bathing suits and the men in white flannel trousers, serge coats, and yachting caps. The picture was full and clear, and "Bottomly — Brighton" was printed at the bottom.

      "The two in the center are Mr. and Miss Allen. The girl said it was the only picture she could find in the house, and seemed sorry she couldn't do better by me. Cost me one dollar and eighty-five cents in entertainment and refreshments. You can slip the word to the ghost to add that on."

      "Excellent. Make out a slip and I'll O. K. it. Sit down. I'm expecting a letter that may have some news. Ah, here it is!" replied the editor, picking out the expected communication. "Let's see what 'Antiquarian' has to say to-day." They both read:

      "That guy is crazy, like a fox, I don't think!" exclaimed the young reporter. "Ll just beat it for the business office. We've got to copper every bet that gink makes."

      In twenty minutes he was back.

      "Here you are, chief!" he exulted. "The Pro Bono. Publico sure gets his dope straight from the feed box. Listen!" And he read:

      "And here at the bottom is:

      "Who received this cancellation, Bennett?"

      "Beat you to it, chief," the young reporter replied pertly. "Maybe I'm no star on this travel stuff, but I'm some guy on this system gag. I've broken too many rules myself not to know one when I see it badly bent. Be that as it may, or as the case may be, as the judge said, it didn't get me anything. There ain't a girl on the board'll admit she took the message and forgot to initial it. What's more, there's the John Hancock of every one of the regulars, and it might be any, all, or none of 'em."

      "Curious," mused the chief. "However, the important fact is that the ad was ordered and then canceled. Of course, we should like to know whether it was a man or woman who canceled it, but I am not at all sure that would give us any peace of mind, either."

      "Nope, you agree with me there, chief," replied Bennett. "If the young lady or the maid canceled, what good would that do us? Neither of them croaked him; that's a copper-riveted cinch. If he canceled it himself, why? There is just one sure thing we're up against. We've got to cook up a new alibi for the lieutenant."

      "Ye-es," replied the editor absently. "By the way, put in an order for a duplicate photograph or two of this Brighton picture, and tell the girl to ask Reed to run in some time this afternoon if he will."

      The lieutenant, however, had seen no particular reason for awaiting a special invitation to call on the managing editor. The story of his supposititious activities, as reported in the Sunday edition, had. pleased his conventional mental attitude exactly. It was quite in keeping with the character of interview he was best able to accord on most of his "investigations," and in the present case reflected a spirit of sincerity that most of his own excuses usually lacked.

      As this conviction grew upon him he decided that he was at last in the hands of this friends. As a result he felt it incumbent upon him to call on the editor and assure him of this, or, as he expressed it to himself, "slip him a little bull." In pursuit of this laudable design he announced his arrival to the office girl a very few moments after her unsuccessful efforts to connect with him at his office.

      His promptness was a matter of no surprise to the managing editor, who was in the habit of securing very quick responses to most of his requests. He wasted no time, either, in dispelling the equanimity of the lieutenant. He reported that an investigation of their files, as well as those of each of the other daily papers for Thursday last, failed to disclose any advertisement such as that for which the murdered man was supposed to have remained at his home.

      Nonplused momentarily, more because of his necessity for a new excuse than because of his very evident oversight in failing to discover this important bit of information himself, the lieutenant reverted to his original conviction, and decided to throw himself on the mercy of his friends.

      "Well," he commented, "we ain't learned a single new thing. We'll have to stall again. What'd you think we ought to say now?"

      "That predicament has naturally engaged my thought to a certain extent, lieutenant," the M. E. replied. "I also am of the opinion that a certain aspect of this affair seems to indicate a little "stalling,' as you suggest. And by the way, Bennett at my suggestion secured an excellent photograph of the murdered man and his sister, together with three friends, taken in England. It has occurred to me that it might be a wise plan to mail this picture to the authorities in London. It may or not be followed by any definite result, but there can be no objection to the plan."

      "Sure, sure," replied the police officer. "Just give me the photo and I'll send it off at once."

      "I am having a duplicate or two made from the original, and I think they will be ready by four or five o'clock. If you don't mind, I shall write a brief request, outlining the salient points, which you may have copied on official paper and sent on over your signature," replied the editor.

      "Just as you say," replied the lieutenant.

      "Very well," replied the editor. "If you will return about five o'clock, we'll get the picture off. You might bring along a piece or two of official paper and save time."

      After the departure of the police official the editor called a stenographer and rapidly dictated a story for the following day. He made no reference to the absence of the "Help Wanted" advertisement, but hinted at important developments tending to convince the police that the crime had been perpetrated by a criminal of much higher intelligence than that likely to be reflected in the person of any seeker for a furnaceman's job.

      That this suggestion appealed strongly to one member of that organization at least was quickly manifest after the lieutenant read a proof of the story on his return at five o'clock. "That's the dope!" he exclaimed, with great satisfaction. "Couldn't have said it better myself. Pictures done? I'd like to get a slant at one."

      The pictures were done, and the lieutenant examined one with marked interest. "Fine of the dame, all right. Some shape, too! Reckon this is her brother, though I can't say he looked quite so swell the night I saw him. Now where have I seen this guy right behind him? Face is familiar. I bet I've seen him or a picture of him. I'll take this copy along if you don't mind. I can't place that chap right off the bat, but it'll come to me."

      "I had that extra one made for you. We'll just send this original right off, if you brought that paper. Here, I'll have this letter copied. You will note I have requested a cable reply, to be directed to you. We should receive it within eight or nine days. I hope you will have unraveled this mystery by then, but we might as well do everything we can," suggested the editor.

      "Say," replied the lieutenant, "you send me to trampin' a beat in Hamtramck if I see a chance in a million of pinchin' the guy that done this job."

      "Nil desperandum, meaning later," laughed the editor. "Just sign this, lieutenant, and if a reply comes pay for it and bring the bill to us. You will note that I have numbered the persons in the picture from one to five. I mention in this letter that Mr. Allen and his sister are supposed to have resided in St. John's Wood Road, near Lord's Cricket Grounds in London, and that they are supposed to have been under a certain measure of suspicion before leaving for America. I have further suggested that they send us a cable reply by Western Union code should they possess any information of an interesting character, a fuller reply to follow by mail."

      "Just what I would have said myself," replied the lieutenant complacently. "Ill breeze along now, and if you get wised up on any new dope, tip me off. So long."

      The account of the next morning was relegated to an inside position of no prominence, as the ardor of a jaded public interest was hardly expected to reflect the same degree of expectation shared by those on the inside. As a matter of fact, the murder had ceased to be a matter of any public concern, and even the announcement of the findings of the coroner's jury failed to arouse more than passing notice.

      The decision of this self-important body was neither startling nor unexpected. They found that the deceased had met his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown. In the absence of any new evidence none of the reporters present saw fit to waste any time on the somewhat fulsome evasions of Lieutenant Reed, and to all intents and purposes the Burlingame mystery became a dead issue.

      The report of the jury's findings appeared in the issue of just eight days after the letter signed by Lieutenant Reed had been dispatched to London. During that time absolutely no item of interest had come to the attention of the several concerned in unraveling the case. Every morning the managing editor sought for a letter from "Antiquarian." Every night he confidently expected it to arrive on the following day. None came.

      The silence of his unknown correspondent perplexed and annoyed the editor, and on the ninth day after the receipt of his third letter he had the following announcement inserted in the "Personal" column:

      On the noon mail of the same day he was rewarded. The answer he received read as follows:

      The managing editor called in his assistant, Bennett.

      "About that Allen case, Bennett," he remarked. "I do not remember any particulars regarding the chauffeur. Did you see him?"

      "No, I didn't, chief," replied the young man. "But Reed did the day after the murder. His name is George Canfield, and he lived in the house. I never paid a bit of attention to him, as the lieutenant reported he couldn't have been within five miles of the place. After leaving Miss Allen at the theater, he went to the Lafayette pool rooms and played pool and billiards all afternoon. He got there at two forty and left at exactly a quarter of five. The lieut didn't have any trouble in checking him up, as he had had a fuss with the cashier over his checks. He had been plugged in at a pool table at two forty and swore that while he was in the place by that time he hadn't got a game for at least fifteen minutes after. He'd had several fusses with his partners, too, and four or five bums remembered all about him when the lieut went up Friday afternoon to check him up. Lets him out without a doubt."

      "So it would seem," murmured the editor. "However, I wish you would tun out to the Peninsular State Bank's Rosedale Court branch and discover whether you can learn anything from them about this man Canfield. You might also discover whether your young lady friend can give you any interesting information about him. Telephone me if anything interesting develops."

      "All right, chief," replied Bennett. "I'll call you up within an hour."

      A few moments after the time limit the reporter had set for himself, the editor was put in communication with him over his private phone.

      "I say, chief," Bennett's voice rang excitedly over the wire, "that chauffeur must have been J. P. M. in disguise. He's been carrying a balance at that bank as high as sixty thousand dollars. Had 'em all stepping sidewise yesterday morning when he wanted to pull it all out in real money. They gave him five thousand dollars in cash and a cashier's check for fifty-two thousand three hundred and twenty dollars on the bank downtown. Struck 'em dead when I told 'em he was a chauffeur. Always came in dressed up like a horse, and they thought he was some rich guy too lazy to go downtown to bank."

      "Quick work, Bennett," replied the editor. "I'll find out at once whether he has cashed in downtown."

      "But wait a minute, chief," remonstrated Bennett. "That isn't all. I called up my lady friend, and she says Miss Allen is in a terrible stew. Canfield hasn't been around since leaving the house about nine o'clock yesterday morning. Didn't come home last night at all, and she's sure he telephoned early this morning to Miss Allen. What'll I do next?"

      "Go to the house and see if Miss Allen will give you an interview. Come in as soon as you can. I'll get in touch with Reed at once."

      To the lieutenant the editor immediately reported these unexpected developments. The police officer said he would have the dragnet out, and promised to land the chauffeur within three hours if he were still in town.

      "I shouldn't be too sanguine on that score," cautioned the editor. "If I do not hear from you by six o'clock, I think it will be good policy to run a story in the morning paper. I feel rather confident that the quicker that man is under lock and key the better. The publicity can't do any harm, at any rate. By the way, is there any word from London yet?"

      "Not a whisper," replied Reed. "Time they came through at that, if our letter ain't been blown up on the way over. But you watch my smoke! We land that guy or somebody will lose a sweet, fat job."

      "Bennett is attempting an interview with Miss Allen, and if he should be able to secure any new or interesting data, I will instruct him to call you up the moment he returns."

      "I'll be right here," replied the officer. On his return, however, Bennett had little or nothing to report. Miss Allen had declined to be interviewed on any subject, claiming an attack of neuralgia. At his chief's suggestion, he reported to Mr. Reed in person, and returned with a personal conviction, shared with no reluctance by the editor, that little success was likely to follow the timeworn policy of the department in apprehending the missing man.

      Accordingly the story in the next morning's issue galvanized the public into a renewed interest in the Burlingame mystery, and before noon the supposed fugitive had been definitely identified in no less than fifteen different places by fifteen different amateur detectives, no one of whom had ever seen him, knew in the least what he really looked like, or had any suspicion of his existence before. Wise to this species of folly, Lieutenant Reed wasted no time on wild-goose chases, but as usual sat in his office and waited for something to "turn up."

      As it happened, something actually did. At one thirty he was delivered a long message from London. With the message in his hand, he wasted no time in seeking his friend the editor.

      "I didn't want to do a thing," he explained to the fatter, "until I could see what you thought about it. This dope is going to raise Billy Hell."

      The editor took the message and read it from start to finish with the keenest interest:

      "Well," exclaimed the editor, "that is a poser, isn't it?"

      "Yep, and that ain't all, neither." replied the officer. "No. 2 is our missing chauffeur. The plain-clothes man I had a long while checking up on him the day after the murder slanted that picture in my office this noon and spotted it right away. I knew I'd seen the guy, but blame me if I got next at all."

      "If I may venture to suggest it, lieutenant, I should counsel the apprehension of the alleged Miss Allen without a moment's delay."

      "I guessed we'd agree on that all right, so I sent two men to No. 65 just before I blew over here. I've got a buzz wagon below, and told them to hold her till I got there."

      "Well, I have a premonition you won't be in time," replied the editor. "However, hustle out there and telephone me what develops if you pinch the lady. You might take Bennett along, I know he is dying for a little excitement."

      "O. K.," agreed the officer. "Call you up just as soon as I can."

      The officer, attended by the highly excited Bennett, had not departed more than five minutes when the city editor closeted himself with his chief.

      "I just received a message from a good friend of mine in the Receiving Hospital, chief," he said. "Fifteen minutes ago the ambulance brought in two serious cases from a Palmer Park road house. The woman died from a bullet in the brain three minutes after they got her in. The man is shot in two places through the chest. He is conscious, but is likely to croak within the hour. The interne who telephoned me says he is sure the woman is the sister of Allen. He feels pretty sure the man is the chauffeur, though he is dressed in the latest style. I thought I should tell you at once. What shall we do?"

      "Get there just as quickly as we can. Leave word to get hold of Reed as soon as he arrives at No. 65, and have him burn up the road to the hospital. Hustle a boy out and have a taxi at the corner by the time we walk that far."

      In less than eight minutes the two were at the hospital, where the editor identified the dead woman from the picture he had brought with him. The man was still on the table in the emergency dressing room, surrounded by a swarm of plain-clothes men and patrolmen in uniform. To their crude attempts at cross-examination he simply maintained a sneering silence. It was evident that his vitality was fast ebbing, and at the request of the managing editor they all withdrew but one chosen by the city editor. The latter explained that his "chief was in the full confidence of Lieutenant Reed, whose presence was momentarily expected.

      The editor stepped to the side of the dying man, and, holding the photograph before him, said:

      "We know all about it, Canfield. Don't you want to tell us the reason before you go out?"

      At the sight of the photograph the man's feeble eyelids flickered, and he whispered: "She said she'd burn that up. I always suspected she was in love with that boob. Well, she got hers."

      "Won't you tell us all about it?" urged his questioner.

      "Sure. I know it's all over, but those flatfoots made me sick. I haven't too much breath left, so if you'll just spill all you know I'll fill in the blanks for you."

      The editor told him quickly the information secured from Scotland Yard, as well as the facts gleaned through the hints of his mysterious correspondent. The dying man was given a strong stimulant, after which he told his story.

      "Ed croaked Westgate, but he didn't intend to do it. We had it all framed to get him for a one-hundred-thousand-dollar investment in an asphalt bed in South America. May spoiled it all by falling in love with the boob, and in a jealous rage Ed stabbed him when both of them were half tight in Westgate's private sitting room. Ed was sober enough to grab a suit case of plunder, and as it turned out we hocked it for close to two hundred thousand dollars in New York. We beat it for Southampton, and just made the midnight boat for Cherbourg. The New York stopped there the next afternoon.

      "We held a council of war, and decided we'd make a break for Detroit. Besides, none of us had ever been there. As a matter of fact, we hadn't worked on this side for over five years, anyway. We decided that Ed would be a retired English gentleman with plenty of money to invest, and that May would be his sister. I was to fill in according to the way the cards ran when we got there.

      "I've known Ed for twelve years, but just happened to run across him in London that summer, met his wife, and saw at a glance she was traveling double just for what there was in it. I fell for her. If you are as wise as you look, that ought to be enough to explain a lot. I was wise all the time that she was handing me the double cross, but even a wise guy's a boob when he falls for any skirt.

      "We landed with twenty thousand pounds in English bank notes, as Westgate had drawn the money for our asphalt game, and Ed copped that. We cleaned up nearly twenty thousand more on the other plunder Ed had riffled his private dispatch box for. We played around New York several months, making up our minds what lay we'd play in Detroit. May happened to get a rich guy on the string, who tipped her off to a big killing in steel, and Ed shelled out ten thousand dollars to play the hunch. We sold out too quick, but at that cleaned up about forty thousand dollars. Ed saw a waiter in the Astor piping him off the night we celebrated the clean-up, and swore it was a man that had served him at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. He blew for Detroit that night, and we packed up and followed a week later.

      "That stock deal gave us the idea, and as soon as we landed here we took a fine house, shipped on a lot of fine stuff Ed had bought in New York, and settled down to play a new game. I became a chauffeur, and got next to all the boys driving for the rich automobile crowd. If there is anything about a man's business a chauffeur doesn't know, you can put the guy down for a mutt. I lined up the live ones, and May got next to them. Ed worked the bucket-shop end of it, and pretty soon we were richer than any crooks had a right to be.

      "As a result we all got pretty chesty. Ed got to drinking and hitting the dope, and was uglier than sin all the time. He made May sign away her right to half of the coin they banked, and for the last three months I have had to fight for every century I got. At last May threatened to blow the bulls to his Brighton job, and he got so scared he agreed to the old split. However, May felt he was likely to run the old bluff any minute, and said she would beat it with me if I'd just get rid of Ed. I never croaked a man before in my life, and I didn't want to do it, but she has put it over on a lot wiser than I am, and at last she wheedled me into it.

      "She framed the whole thing. She bought two .38 guns, and left hers loaded with blanks around, taking a shot at a pup next door once in so often to make her bluff good. She gave the other to me, with a box of cartridges for it. She fired the furnaceman, and told Ed he had better put in an ad for a new one, as there were plenty in the neighborhood, but she wasn't hobnobbing with any of the neighbors.

      "Ed telephoned the ad about noon on Wednesday, and about five o'clock May sent me out to wire the office to cancel it, which I did. She said Thursday was the girl's afternoon off, and that Ed would be all alone. She had me cancel the ad so no bum would be coming around to bother me while I was tending to Ed. She told him he'd have to stay home and answer the ad, as she was lining up a boob on whom she expected to palm off a bum scarab Ed had picked up. Ed worked Cairo two seasons, and got bit right by the Egyptologist bug, which from all accounts is more fatal than the loco weed is for ponies. Some slick dragoman had landed Ed for a pretty penny for a scarab of old King Cheops. That was before he got wised up to the game, and it had become an obsession of his to unload it on some other sucker. He had tried it a dozen times, but always fell down.

      "Everything worked out just as May had doped it. We left the house just as the maid was about to pick up a friend of hers next. door. We left in the machine at one thirty, and took fifteen minutes to drive to Newcomb-Endicott's. I left her there, and beat it back, taking my time and reaching the alley back on Lawrence Avenue in fifteen minutes more. I put on a muffler like the old furnaceman had worn and an old hat covered with ashes. The hat and muffler protected my face, and if anybody saw me, we figured he would take me for the furnaceman. I left these duds in the back hall, and ran in to where Ed was reading in the library. I told him May had sent me back for the scarab, as she had telephoned the boob, who told her he would take it. Ed got it out of the case. He was half stewed, and bawled me out for coming back to bother him. I had my gun in my hand, and as he started to cuss me I took a shot at him before I was ready. He saw my gun, and grabbed at my arm just as the gun went off. The bullet went wild, and hit the wall, but he was so drunk it was no trick at all to plug him with my second shot.

      "I was perfectly cool and not a bit worried. Ed was a rat, and I had no compunction about croaking him, once I had made up my mind to do it. I dragged the Chinese chair to where he dropped, and lifted him into it. I got up and moved a picture over the hole in the wall where my wild bullet had struck, took out May's pistol, extracted one of the cartridges, and put one I had shot in place of it. I then placed all of the cartridges I hadn't used back in the box, and dropped it in the drawer where May always kept her gun, dropping the latter near Ed's right hand. I forgot entirely Ed was left-handed, but even if I had remembered it I should have probably done the same thing, as I never should have touched the stiff to get that scarab out of his left hand.

      "I walked right out just as I had entered, and was backing out of the alley in twenty minutes from the time I had left the car there. I beat it downtown in just about twelve minutes, and took about eight minutes more to find a place to park my car. This brought me to the pool room at exactly two forty, which was the time we had figured on my getting there. I played all afternoon, making a fuss about everything that gave me a good excuse, as I wanted to perfect an alibi that would hold water, and I guess I did.

      "When May got home she threw a fit that she had practiced on before, and from all accounts she put everything over to the queen's taste. After it was all over and I asked her to keep her promise, she just laughed at me. I was a boob not to draw down my cash and beat it then, but I hated to see her get away with it. I stuck around, hoping she would make good, but about three or four days ago I began to realize some one was following me up pretty close. I didn't get wise until day before yesterday who it was, when I caught that old Grumpy next door peeking in at me when I went to draw some money at the bank. I felt right then he had my number, for he is a foxy old busybody with not a thing in the world to do but make somebody trouble. I decided that night I should draw out my share of the spoils and lay low. I did it the next morning, going to a private rooming house in Highland Park.

      "Last night I got terribly lonesome, and made up my mind May would have to beat it with me or come across with at least half of the plunder. I had telephoned her, and she had told me she didn't want to ever hear from me again. This morning, however, that story broke in the paper. I called her up, and told her she would meet me at the road house or I'd spill the beans. She agreed to come, and did.

      "We got into a big argument in a private room I had engaged, and I told her flat she would have to go with me or dig up at least three hundred thousand dollars. I had no idea how much she had, but felt it was not less than six or seven hundred thousand dollars. She said for me to go to the devil — that she was going to marry young Bedford, and that she wouldn't give me a copper. What she said about Bedford made me see red, and so I shot her. I haven't a thing on earth to live for, so made a good job of it, and sent two more shots where they would do the most good.

      "That's all, I'll swear to it if it will do you any good. It's some relief to get it off my chest. Gimme another drink, and if there is anything hot around here just wrap it around my legs, will you, please?"

      Lieutenant Reed had entered as Canfield was describing the cancellation of the want ad, and listened to the rest of the story with rapt attention. As Canfield finished, he asked him:

      "What's your real moniker, Canfield?"

      "Never mind," the dying man smiled. "We all have names better than our reputations, but where we're going names don't count for much. So long; give my regards to Grumpy."

      The city editor wrote the story, and "Antiquarian" replied to it with characteristic pedantry. The letter is hardly worth repeating, so we shall content ourselves with the postscript. It said: