d under his breath. "Fleming!"

We were silent, in response to a signal from Hunter, and the steps
retreated heavily down the hall. The detective spread the blankets
decently over the couch, and the three of us moved the body there.
Wardrop was almost collapsing.

"Now," Hunter said quietly, "before I call in Doctor Gray from the room
across, what do you know about this thing, Mr. Wardrop?"

Wardrop looked dazed.

"He was in a bad way when I left this morning," he said huskily. "There
isn't much use now trying to hide anything; God knows I've done all I
could. But he has been using cocaine for years, and to-day he ran out of
the stuff. When I got here, about half an hour ago, he was on the verge
of killing himself. I got the revolver from him--he was like a crazy
man, and as soon as I dared to leave him, I went out to try and find a
doctor--"

"To get some cocaine?"

"Yes."

"Not--because he was already wounded, and you were afraid it was fatal?"

Wardrop shuddered; then he pulled himself together, and his tone was
more natural.

"What's the use of lying about it?" he said wearily. "You won't believe
me if I tell the truth, either, but--he was dead when I got here. I
heard something like the bang of a door as I went up-stairs, but the
noise was terrific down below, and I couldn't tell. When I went in, he
was just dropping forward, and--" he hesitated.

"The revolver?" Hunter queried, lynx-eyed.

"Was in his hand. He was dead then."

"Where is the revolver?"

"I will turn it over to the coroner."

"You will give it to me," Hunter replied sharply. And after a little
fumbling, Wardrop produced it from his hip pocket. It was an ordinary
thirty-eight. The detective opened it and glanced at it. Two chambers
were empty.

"And you waited--say ten minutes, before you called for help, and even
then you went outside hunting a doctor! What were you doing in those ten
minutes?"

Wardrop shut his lips and refused to reply.

"If Mr. Fleming shot himself," the detective pursued relentlessly,
"there would be powder marks around the wound. Then, too, he was in the
act of writing a letter. It was a strange impulse, this--you see, he had
only written a dozen words."

I glanced at the paper on the table. The letter had no superscription;
it began abruptly:

"I shall have to leave here. The numbers have followed me.
To-night--"

That was all.

"This is not suicide," Hunter said gravely. "It is murder,