ach visitation
of the panel the silence that prevailed was sinister.

"There's no one in," faltered Mr. Warmdollar.

Inspector Val pointed ominously to the hall-rack on which were hanging
Storri's hat and waterproof coat. Mr. Warmdollar wrung his hands; his
imagination, fretted into fever by the remoteness of his latest whisky
toddy,--whisky toddy being Mr. Warmdollar's favorite tipple,--began to
give him pictures of what dread things lay hidden in the silence beyond
that unresponsive door.

Inspector Val took from his pocket three pieces of steel, each about the
size of a lead pencil, and began screwing them together, end for end.
The instrument produced was a foot in length and looked like a
screwdriver. As a matter of burglarious fact it was a jimmy of fineness
and finish. It had been the property of a gentlemanly "flat-worker," who
made rich hauls before he fell into the fingers of Inspector Val and
went to Sing Sing. Inspector Val applied the absent gentleman's jimmy to
the San Reve's door, squarely over the lock. He gave it a twitch and the
door flew inward, the bolt tearing out a mouthful of the casing.

"Stand back!" said Inspector Val to Mr. Warmdollar, who having already
retired to the lower step of the stair, where he sat with his face
buried in his hands, hardly required the warning.

One gas jet was burning in the San Reve's room; being turned down to
lowest ebb, it was about as illuminative as a glow-worm. Inspector Val
stretched forth his hand and instantly the room was flooded of light.
Inspector Val was neither shocked nor surprised at the spectacle before
him; he was case-hardened by a multitude of professional experiences,
and besides, for full a fortnight he had read murder in the San Reve's
face.

Storri was lying upon the lounge, dead--stone-dead. A trifling hole in
the back of the head showed where the bullet entered in search of his
life. There was a minimum of blood; the few dried drops upon a curling
lock of the black hair were all there was to tell how death came. Storri
had been dead for hours; the small thirty-two caliber revolver--being
that one which Storri had seen on a memorable night in mid-winter--lay
on the floor where it fell from the San Reve's jealous fingers. It was a
diminutive machine, blue steel and mother of pearl, more like a
plaything than a pistol.

The San Reve was on her knees beside the dead Storri, her left arm
beneath his head and her face buried in the silken