er-plated edge. His eyes lifted. His lips hardened as
the diaphragm of the receiver vibrated harshly.

"Hello!" he answered tersely. "Hello! This you, Commissioner? Is this
Fosdick? ... This is Drew talking. Yes! ... Drew.... Yes! I say,
Fosdick, there's been a murder committed at Stockbridge's.... You
know--the munitions magnate! ... The millionaire! ... Morphy's old
partner."

Drew waited a moment. He dropped his eyes upon the body below him.

"Yes!" he continued into the transmitter. "Yes, Fosdick. I hear better,
now. Yes--Stockbridge is dead! ... He's stone dead! He was shot down in
cold blood! ... Yes! ... Shot in the brain.... Yes! Send your best
operatives.... Yes! ... Send a fingerprint man and photographer. You'll
need 'em! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... Shot with a small-bore revolver, I
guess! ... Wound behind ear looks like it! What? ... No! ... Room was
bolted.... He was inside.... Butler on guard.... Windows closed and
locked! ... No! ... No! ... No! ... It wasn't suicide. He was
threatened twice, this time!... By letter and telephone call....
What? ... What? ... No! ... He didn't shoot himself! ... There's no gun.
It's on the left side--close up! ... Hair is singed ... flesh is powder
spotted.... Burned? ... Yes.... You'll be right up?... Yes! ... I'll be
waiting! ... Come! ... come----"

Drew lowered the receiver and clicked it upon the hook of the telephone
which stood on the hardwood floor. He slowly turned toward the open
doorway of the library. The servants had drawn back and out of sight.
Delaney leaned forward with both hands on his bent knees. A girl's
voice had sounded in the mansion. It came closer. The portieres parted
with a silken sweep. Drew braced himself against the larger table. His
hand went back to his hip. It dropped to his side. He stared across the
flood of light with line-drawn eyelids.

Loris Stockbridge, gowned in lace chiffon and cloaked with ermine and
sable, glided across the rugs and stood framed beneath the soft,
rose-light of the central dome. Her dusk-black eyes burned and blazed
like flame through tinder smoke as she confronted the detective.

Clasped in the fingers of her jewelless right hand was a tiny,
ivory-handled revolver.

"What are all these people doing here?" she asked hysterically.

CHAPTER SIX

"HARRY NICHOLS"

Detective Triggy Drew flushed slightly beneath his olive skin. He
bowed, with his keen eyes fixed upon the little, ivory-handled revolver
cl