t there had
taken place something evil, something that chilled his blood.

Yet he did not go. He had come for a purpose, and it was
characteristic of him that he stayed in spite of the dread that grew on
him till it filled his breast. Again he groped along the wall for the
light switch. A second match flared in his fingers and showed it to
him. Light flooded the room.

His first sensation was of relief. This handsome apartment with its
Persian rugs, its padded easy-chairs, its harmonious wall tints, had a
note of repose quite alien to tragedy. It was the home of a man who
had given a good deal of attention to making himself comfortable.
Indefinably, it was a man's room. The presiding genius of it was
masculine and not feminine. It lacked the touches of adornment that
only a woman can give to make a place homelike.

Yet one adornment caught Kirby's eye at once. It was a large
photograph in a handsome frame on the table. The picture showed the
head and bust of a beautiful woman in evening dress. She was a
brunette, young and very attractive. The line of head, throat, and
shoulder was perfect. The delicate, disdainful poise and the gay
provocation in the dark, slanting eyes were enough to tell that she was
no novice in the game of sex. He judged her an expensive orchid
produced in the civilization of our twentieth-century hothouse. Across
the bottom of the picture was scrawled an inscription in a fashionably
angular hand. Lane moved closer to read it. The words were, "Always,
Phyllis." Probably this was the young woman to whom, if rumor were
true, James Cunningham, Senior, was engaged.

On the floor, near where Kirby had been lying, lay a heavy piece of
agate evidently used for a paperweight. He picked up the smooth stone
and guessed instantly that this was the weapon which had established
contact with his chin. Very likely the woman's hand had closed on it
when she heard him coming. She had switched off the light and waited
for him. That the blow had found a vulnerable mark and knocked him out
had been sheer luck.

Kirby passed into a luxurious bedroom beyond which was a tiled
bathroom. He glanced these over and returned to the outer apartment.
There was still another door. It was closed. As the man from Wyoming
moved toward it he felt once more a strange sensation of dread. It was
strong enough to stop him in his stride. What was he going to find
behind that door? When he laid his hand o