breathing, which was both quick and labored.

"Does he know that any one has entered the house? Did he see you when
you came upon him upstairs?" whispered Mr. Gryce into the ear of the man
beside him.

Styles shook his head, and pointed eagerly toward the opposite door. The
man for whose appearance they waited had just lifted the portiere and in
another moment stood in full view just inside the threshold.

Mr. Gryce and his attendant colleague both stared. Was this the
murderer? This pale, lean servitor, with a tray in his hand on which
rested a single glass of water?

Mr. Gryce was so astonished that he looked at Styles for explanation.
But that officer, hiding his own surprise, for he had not expected this
peaceful figure, urged him in a whisper to have patience, and both,
turning toward the man again, beheld him advance, stop, cast one look at
the figure lying on the floor and then let slip the glass with a low cry
that at once changed to something like a howl.

"Look at him! Look at him!" urged Styles, in a hurried whisper. "Watch
what he will do now. You will see a murderer at work."

And sure enough, in another instant this strange being, losing all
semblance to his former self, entered upon a series of pantomimic
actions which to the two men who watched him seemed both to explain and
illustrate the crime which had just been enacted there.

With every appearance of passion, he stood contemplating the empty air
before him, and then, with one hand held stretched out behind him in a
peculiarly cramped position, he plunged with the other toward a table
from which he made a feint of snatching something which he no sooner
closed his hand upon than he gave a quick side-thrust, still at the
empty air, which seemed to quiver in return, so vigorous was his action
and so evident his intent.

The reaction following this thrust; the slow unclosing of his hand from
an imaginary dagger; the tottering of his body backward; then the moment
when with wide open eyes he seemed to contemplate in horror the result
of his own deed;--these needed no explanation beyond what was given by
his writhing features and trembling body. Gradually succumbing to the
remorse or terror of his own crime, he sank lower and lower, until,
though with that one arm still stretched out, he lay in an inert heap on
the floor.

"It is what I saw him do upstairs," murmured Styles into the ear of the
amazed detective. "He has evidently been driven insa