was despatched, no answer could be expected to that for
a week or more.

Meantime, by general consent, Benjamin Crane took charge of Blair's
affairs. The funeral took place in an undertaker's establishment and the
body was placed in a receiving vault, until Blair's people could be
heard from. His immediate possessions remained in the studio rooms, for
the lease had still six months to run, and the police objected to any
removal of the dead man's effects. It was practically impossible to seal
them up as Thorpe occupied the same rooms, but a strict surveillance was
kept, and Weston doggedly asserted he would yet track down the murderer.

For no one could doubt Blair had been murdered. On the eve of the prize
competition, in which he was so deeply interested,--on the eve, as he
hoped, of being engaged to Carlotta Harper, whom he loved, full of life
and energy, why should he kill himself? It was impossible to accept the
theory of suicide, and the detectives were hard at work on the case.

McClellan Thorpe was suspected, but as there was no evidence against
him, save his indubitable and exclusive opportunity, he had not as yet
been arrested.

"His opportunity was not exclusive," Mr. Crane contended. "Those studio
apartments are not burglar proof! Anybody might have got in during the
night and administered the poison."

"No," Weston objected. "It would be practically impossible for any one
to go into those rooms, force or persuade Blair to swallow poison and
get away without being heard by Mr. Thorpe or without leaving any trace
of his presence."

"Well, look here, Weston," Mr. Crane spoke very seriously, "you know me
well enough to know I've no notion of evading justice for anybody. But
knowing McClellan Thorpe as I do, and knowing his peculiar temperament,
I wish you'd let him alone,--at least, until you have a bit of
indisputable evidence."

"I've got it, Mr. Crane."

"What?"

The two were sitting in Benjamin Crane's library, where they often met
to talk over the case. Julie was present, for she wanted to know every
detail of any discovery that might be made.

"I don't believe it!" she flared out at the detective's statement.

"Yes, Miss Crane," Weston said, "I found a pretty suspicious
circumstance to-day. Nothing less than a very small bottle, without cork
or label, but smelling unmistakably of prussic acid."

"Where was it?" demanded Crane.

"Hidden in an old and unused paint-box of McClellan Thorpe's."