ppermost
caught his eye. It was a copy of the "Post" of the twenty-fifth. He
looked at the other papers. One was the "Times" and another the
"News," dated respectively the twenty-fourth and the twenty-sixth.
There was an "Express" of the twenty-eighth. Each contained long
accounts of the developments in the Cunningham murder mystery.

How did these papers come here? The apartment was closed, its tenant
in Chicago. The only other persons who had a key and the right of
entry were Horikawa and the Paradox janitor, and the house servant had
fled to parts unknown. Who, then, had brought these papers here? And
why? Some one, Lane guessed, who was vitally interested in the murder.
He based his presumption on one circumstance. The sections of the
newspapers which made no reference to the Cunningham affair had been
jammed into the waste-paper basket close to an adjoining desk.

The apartment held two rooms, a buffet kitchen and a bathroom. Kirby
opened the door into the bedroom.

He stood paralyzed on the threshold. On the bed, fully dressed, his
legs stretched in front of him and his feet crossed, was the missing
man Horikawa. His torso was propped up against the brass posts of the
bedstead. A handkerchief encircled each arm and bound it to the brass
upright behind.

In the forehead, just above the slant, oval eyes, was a bullet hole.
The man had probably been dead for a day, at least for a good many
hours.

The cattleman had no doubt that it was Horikawa. His picture, a good
snapshot taken by a former employer at a picnic where the Japanese had
served the luncheon, had appeared in all the papers and on handbills
sent out by James Cunningham, Junior. There was a scar, Y-shaped and
ragged, just above the left eye, that made identification easy.

Kirby stepped to the window of the living-room and called to his friend.

"Want me to help you gather the loot?" chaffed Cole.

"Serious business, old man," Kirby told him, and the look on his face
backed the words.

Sanborn swung across to the window and came through.

"What is it?" he asked quickly.

"I've found Horikawa."

"Found him--where?"

The eyes of the men met and Cole guessed that grim tragedy was in the
air. He followed Kirby to the bedroom.

"God!" he exclaimed.

His gaze was riveted to the bloodless, yellow face of the Oriental.
Presently he broke the silence to speak again.

"The same crowd that killed Cunningham must 'a' done this, to