one of the divorce court? I thought not. And the same was true of Ellingham. Here were two people, both of them careful of appearance, if not of fact. There was another possibility, too. That he had learned something while he was dressing, had attacked or threatened her with a razor, and she had killed him in self-defence.     

       I had reached that point when Sperry came down the staircase, ushering out the detectives and the medical man. He came to the library door and stood looking at me, with his face rather paler than usual.     

       “I’ll take you up now,” he said. “She’s in her room, in bed, and she has had an opiate.”      

       “Was he shot above the ear?”      

       “Yes.”      

       I did not look at him, nor he at me. We climbed the stairs and entered the room, where, according to Elinor’s story, Arthur Wells had killed himself. It was a dressing-room, as Miss Jeremy had described. A wardrobe, a table with books and magazines in disorder, two chairs, and a couch, constituted the furnishings. Beyond was a bathroom. On a chair by a window the dead       mans’s evening clothes were neatly laid out, his shoes beneath. His top hat and folded gloves were on the table.     

       Arthur Wells lay on the couch. A sheet had been drawn over the body, and I did not disturb it. It gave the impression of unusual length that is always found, I think, in the dead, and a breath of air from an open window, by stirring the sheet, gave a false appearance of life beneath.     

       The house was absolutely still.     

       When I glanced at Sperry he was staring at the ceiling, and I followed his eyes, but there was no mark on it. Sperry made a little gesture.     

       “It’s queer,” he muttered. “It’s—”      

       “The detective and I put him there. He was here.” He showed a place on the floor midway of the room.     

       “Where was his head lying?” I asked, cautiously.     

       “Here.”      

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