-"

"I mean, Knox, that the man who occupied the supper room on the night
before the tragedy--the dark man, tanned and bearded, with slightly
oblique eyes---spent his time in filing through that bar--in short, in
preparing a death trap!"

I was almost dumbfounded.

"But, Harley," I said, "assuming that he knew his victim would be the
next occupant of the room, how could he know------?"

I stopped. Suddenly, as if a curtain had been raised, the details of
what I now perceived to be a fiendishly cunning murder were revealed to
me.

"According to his own account, Knox," resumed Harley, "Major Ragstaff
regularly passed along that street with military punctuality at the same
hour every night. You may take it for granted that the murderer was well
aware of this. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that he was. We
must also take it for granted that the murderer knew of these little
dinners for two which took place in the private room above the Cafe
Dame every Wednesday--and sometimes on Friday. Around the figure of the
methodical major--with his conspicuous white hat as a sort of focus--was
built up one of the most ingenious schemes of murder with which I have
ever come in contact. The victim literally killed himself."

"But, Harley, the victim might have ignored the disturbance."

"That is where I first detected the touch of genius, Knox. He recognized
the voice of one of the combatants--or his companion did. Here we are."

The cab drew up before the house in Hamilton Place. We alighted, and
Harley pressed the bell. The same footman whom I had seen admit the
woman opened the door.

"Is Lady Ireton at home?" asked Harley.

As he uttered the name I literally held my breath. We had come to the
house of Major Ragstaff's daughter, the Marchioness of Ireton, one of
society's most celebrated and beautiful hostesses!--the wife of a peer
famed alike as sportsman, soldier, and scholar.

"I believe she is dining at home, sir," said the man. "Shall I inquire?"

"Be good enough to do so," replied Harley, and gave him a card. "Inform
her that I wish to return to her a handbag which she lost a few days
ago."

The man ushered us into an anteroom opening off the lofty and rather
gloomy hall, and as the door closed:

"Harley," I said in a stage whisper, "am I to believe------"

"Can you doubt it?" returned Harley with a grim smile.

A few moments later we were shown into a charmingly intimate little
boudoir in which Lady