is hand. Ted was back against
the wall, his mouth dropping open, his whole face frozen like a face
caught in a snapshot unawares to a sudden glare of immense and ludicrous
astonishment. Then he began to give at the knees like a man who has
been smitten with pie in a custard-comedy and Oliver recovered from his
surprise at both of them sufficiently to step in and catch him as he
slumped, face forward.

He laid him carefully down on the floor, trying feverishly to remember
how long a knockout lasted. Not nearly long enough, anyway. Ropes. A
gag. His eyes roved frantically about the kitchen. _Towels_!

He was filling Ted's mouth with clean dish-rag and thinking dully that
it was just like handling a man in the last stages of alcohol--the body
had the same limp refractory heaviness all over--when he heard something
that sounded like the bursting of a large blown-up paper bag from the
other room. He accepted the fact with neither surprise nor curiosity.
Mr. Piper had shot Mrs. Severance. Or Mrs. Severance had shot Mr. Piper.
That was all.

As soon as he had safely disposed of Ted--for an eery moment he
had actually considered stowing him away in a drawer of the
kitchen-cabinet--it might be well to go in and investigate the murder.

And then either Mrs. Severance or Mr. Piper--whichever it was of the two
that remained alive--might very well shoot him unless he or she had
shot himself or herself first. It seemed to Oliver that the latter event
would save everyone a great deal of trouble.

He did not relish the idea of being left alone in a perfectly strange
apartment with two corpses and one gagged, bound and unconscious best
friend--but he liked the picture of himself trying to make explanations
to either his hostess or Mr. Piper when, in either case, the other party
to the argument would be in possession of a loaded revolver, still
less. He hoped that if Mrs. Severance were the survivor she had had a
sufficiently Western upbringing at least to know how to shoot. He had no
particular wish to die--but anything was better than being mangled--and
a reminiscence of Hedda Gabler's poet's technique with firearms caused
his stomach to contract quite painfully as he tightened the knots
around Ted's ankles. Ted was the devil and all to get out on the
fire-escape--and then you had to tie him so that he wouldn't roll off.

He crawled back through the window, dusted his trousers, and settled his
necktie as carefully as if he were g