mpatiently from the door and, crossing the room, bent over the dead man
and looked long and searchingly at the curious wound in his head. He
then examined the fastenings of the windows minutely, and, raising one
of the large windows in the south wall, looked out. Evidently nothing
attracted his attention outside. He turned from the window, after
closing it again, and started toward us, then stooped suddenly and
picked up a small white object which lay near one of the legs of a table
standing near the window. It was in plain view, and I wondered that I
had not seen it during my previous examination of the room. McQuade
handed the object, a small bit of lace, I thought, to Major Temple.
"What do you make of that?" he asked.

Major Temple took the thing and spread it out, and I at once saw that it
was a woman's handkerchief. My surprise at this was overbalanced by the
look of horror which spread over the Major's face. He became deathly
pale, and his hand shook violently as he looked at the bit of lace
before him. I stepped to his side and saw, as did he, the initials,
M. T., in one corner and noticed a strong and most peculiar odor of
perfume, some curious Oriental scent that rose from the handkerchief.
McQuade gazed at us, curiously intent. "Do you recognize it?" he
inquired.

"Yes," said Major Temple, recovering himself with an effort. "It is my
daughter's."

"How do you explain its presence here?" asked the detective.

"I do not attempt to do so, any more than I can undertake to explain any
of the other strange events connected with this horrible affair," said
the Major, pathetically. He seemed to me to have aged perceptibly since
the evening before; he looked broken, old.

McQuade took the handkerchief and placed it carefully in his pocket, and
continued his examination of the room. As he did so, I stood aside, a
prey to strange thoughts. I felt ready to swear that the handkerchief
had not been upon the floor during my previous examination of the room,
yet how could its presence there now be explained, with the door locked,
the key in Major Temple's pocket, and Gibson on guard in the hall. I
thought of Muriel Temple, young, beautiful, innocent in every outward
appearance, yet remembered with a qualm of misgiving her flashing eyes
and determined manner as she spoke of Robert Ashton, her aversion to
him, and her determination never to marry him under any circumstances. I
felt that there was more beneath this strange