ose presence he stood had laid its chilly hand on him also.

At last he stirred and looked about him with a bewildered air, then
carefully and with a reverent hand, he put back the sackcloth covering.

"So I've found you, Charley," he whispered. "Found you at last."

He replaced the lid, leaving everything as it had been when he entered
the attic, and stood for a time, trying to collect his thoughts which
the shock of this dreadful discovery had so disordered, and to decide
what to do next.

"But, then, that's simple," he thought. "I must go straight to the
police and bring them here. They said they wanted proof; they said I had
nothing to go on but bare suspicion. But that's evidence enough to hang
Deede Dawson--the girl, too, perhaps."

Then he wondered whether it could be that she knew nothing and was
innocent of all part or share in this dreadful deed. But how could that
be possible? How could it be that such a crime committed in the house in
which she lived could remain unknown to her?

On the other hand, when he thought of her clear, candid eyes; when he
remembered her gentle beauty, it did not seem conceivable that behind
them could lie hidden the tigerish soul of a murderess.

"That's only sentiment, though," he muttered. "Nothing more. Beautiful
women have been rotten bad through and through before today. There's
nothing for me to do but to go and inform the police, and get them here
as soon as possible. If she's innocent, I suppose she'll be able to
prove it."

He hesitated a moment, as he thought of how he had left her, bound and a
prisoner.

It seemed brutal to leave her like that while he was away, for he would
probably be some time absent. But with a hard look, he told himself that
whatever pain she suffered she must endure it.

His first and sole thought must be to bring to justice the murderers of
his unfortunate friend; and to secure, too, thereby, the success almost
certainly of his own mission.

To release her and leave her at liberty might endanger the attainment of
both those ends, and so she must remain a prisoner.

"Only," he muttered, "if she knew the attic almost over her head held
such a secret, why, didn't she take the chance I gave her of getting
hold of my revolver? That she didn't, looks as if she knew nothing."

But then he thought again of the photograph in her room and remembered
that agony of grief to which she had been surrendering herself when he
first saw her. Now thos