ad much to ask of
Benton. But later I will tell of it all.

When we reached the house, Benton still dogging my footsteps, a few
idlers gathered about the door were the only evidence of anything
unusual having happened; but as I entered the doorway, I was stopped by
a policeman, who refused me admission. He recognized Benton, however,
and sent him for some superior, who appeared in the person of Detective
Miles, whom I knew, and who admitted me. I remember I hesitated at the
sitting-room entrance. It was terrible to think of looking upon the dead
body of a man I had left strong and well only a few hours before. The
detective observed my action as he stood by to let me enter and said:

"It is a case of murder, Mr. Dallas, but there are no evidences of a
struggle, and the victim looks as if he were only asleep."

A little ashamed of my momentary weakness, I crossed the threshold and
stood in the room. For a moment I looked about me, avoiding
unconsciously the first glance at the poor boy whom I knew lay on the
divan. Everything seemed as we had left it the night before. The cards
and score-card were still scattered over the centre table, the dishes
and glasses stood on the sideboard--they had not even been washed,--and
as far as I could judge, the chairs were arranged just as we had
occupied them; it was hard to realize I had been away. Then I looked at
the divan. Yes, White was there, and, as the detective had said, looked
as if asleep. He was dressed as when I left him, in his evening clothes,
and lay as a tired boy might have tossed himself down, resting on his
right side with his head drooping on the edge of the pillow, one arm
thrown over it, and his face partially hidden.

For a moment I thought it all must be some horrible mistake or a dream,
so impossible did it seem that he was dead, but then, the detective, who
had stepped to the divan, placed his hand significantly on something
scarcely observable protruding from his back, just behind the left
shoulder. It was the hilt of a dagger; the blade was buried.

I went over and stood beside the detective, and looked down at the body
and felt the hand. It was cold. Death must have been some hours before.
There could not have been much, if any, struggle, and there were no
signs of violence, except the dagger. This had apparently been taken
from its sheath, which was still suspended from the wall, within easy
reach, just over the divan. I had seen all I needed to tell