urn.

He opened the door very quietly, but had scarcely set his foot in the
lobby ere the dreadful, unforgettable scene met his gaze.

For more years than he could remember, he had lived in dread of the
law; and, in Luke Soames' philosophy, the words Satan and Detective
were interchangeable. Now, before his eyes, was a palpable, unmistakable
police officer; and on the floor...

Just one glimpse he permitted himself--and, in a voice that seemed to
reach him from a vast distance, the detective was addressing HIM!...

Slinking to his room, with his craven heart missing every fourth beat,
and his mind in chaos, Soames sank down upon the bed, locked his hands
together and hugged them, convulsively, between his knees.

It was come! He had overstepped that almost invisible boundary-line
which divides indiscretion from crime. He knew now that the voice within
him, the voice which had warned him against Gianapolis and against
becoming involved in what dimly he had perceived to be an elaborate
scheme, had been, not the voice of cowardice (as he had supposed) but
that of prudence.

And it was too late. The dead woman, he told himself--he had been unable
to see her very clearly--undoubtedly was Mrs. Leroux. What in God's name
had happened! Probably her husband had killed her... which meant? It
meant that proofs--PROOFS--were come into his possession; and who should
be involved, entangled in the meshes of this fallen conspiracy, but
himself, Luke Soames!

As must be abundantly evident, Soames was not a criminal of the daring
type; he did not believe in reaching out for anything until he was
well assured that he could, if necessary, draw back his hand. This last
venture, this regrettable venture--this ruinous venture--had been
a mistake. He had entered into it under the glamour of Gianapolis'
personality. Of what use, now, to him was his swelling bank balance?

But in justice to the mental capacity of Soames, it must be admitted
that he had not entirely overlooked such a possibility as this; he had
simply refrained, for the good of his health, from contemplating it.

Long before, he had observed, with interest, that, should an emergency
arise (such as a fire), a means of egress had been placed by the kindly
architect adjacent to his bedroom window. Thus, his departure on the
night of the murder was not the fruit of a sudden scheme, but of one
well matured.

Closing and locking his bedroom door, Soames threw out upon the be