lock.

Contrary to the usual experiences as claimed of my fellow-men under
similar circumstances, I do not recall that I had any misgivings that
night or premonition of any sort of the terrible work that was to be
done before day. Indeed, as well as I remember, I retired in an entirely
placid frame of mind, and slept well.

I doubt if I should ever have thought again of the occurrences of the
evening, which after all were commonplace enough, were it not for the
sequel that made every word and moment seem fraught with meaning. So,
always, it is not the sayings and doings of men that are important but
the sequence and sequel of events for which they are but the signs and
tools.

CHAPTER III

A TRAGEDY

I was awakened the next morning earlier than usual by a servant who
announced in a hushed voice that Mr. White's man wanted to see me at
once. I was naturally disinclined to get up at that hour, it being but a
little after seven o'clock, and so directed that the man send me White's
message. The reply that Mr. White was dead took me out of bed in a
flash, and while I hurried into my clothes, the servant, in obedience to
my order, went after Benton. Although but a few minutes had elapsed, I
was about dressed when he appeared at the door.

"Is it true," I asked, "that Mr. White is dead?"

"Yes," he answered, and then coming in and closing the door, whispered:

"He was murdered some time last night. I found him dead on the divan in
the sitting-room, when I went there this morning."

The news was almost too horrible to believe; but the white face and
trembling voice of the man who told it, carried conviction.

"How do you know he was murdered," I asked, after a moment's silence.

"He was stabbed," he said; "the dagger was sticking in him up to the
hilt."

"Come on!" I told him, for now I was dressed, and I hurried down the
stairs and out of the club, Benton following.

As we walked rapidly toward the house the events of the preceding night
recurred to me, but I had no time then nor was I in a sufficiently
composed mind to analyze them nor find their bearing, if any, on the
subsequent events of the night. Of Benton I asked no more questions; it
did not seem worth the while. He had apparently told all he knew of real
importance or if he knew more it was not likely I could easily elicit
it. Afterwards, I over and over again tried to trace in the events of
that evening some drift towards this tragedy, and I h