stooped, after a glance at the servants in the doorway, thrust his
body as a barrier, and reached along Loris' white arm until his hand
closed over the barrel of the little revolver. He untwisted her cold
fingers, and palmed the weapon under a shielding cuff. He rose, saying
to Delaney, who had hurried forward:

"I'll take charge of this."

"Sure, Chief. Plant it. She didn't have it."

"She had it all right, but--we'll suspend judgment. You and the butler
carry her upstairs. Go easy. Her bedroom is on the third floor, I
think. That's the reason she didn't come down sooner. Perhaps, well, I
say, she didn't hear us breaking down the door. We are her agents in
this matter, now. Remember that, and say nothing to anybody. I'll do
the talking."

Drew dropped his hand into his side pocket. It came out without the
revolver but with a handkerchief between his fingers. He mopped his
brow gracefully, then replaced the handkerchief. The motion was a
natural one.

He followed Delaney and the butler with their soft burden as far as the
first steps of the stairway. He turned and strode back to the doorway
leading into the library. He faced about in this. He eyed the servants,
who lowered their heads beneath his accusing scrutiny. Focusing his
gaze to a searching squint he tried to single out a culprit from their
midst. There seemed to be none. Each face was terror-lined and drawn.
Each seemed to want to avoid his direct glance. None of all of them
faced him with boldness or assurance. It was as he expected things to
be. There was no evidence shown in the case that the servants of the
Stockbridge regime had ever threatened the master. They were old, tried
and trusted. They had the faults of their kind. These faults only
served to strengthen Drew's opinion that the murderer of the magnate
had struck from the outside, without benefit of inside information. The
letter and the telephone call were foreign. A note, pinned upon the
millionaire's pillow, would have been more effective. Nothing had been
tried like that. This proved to Drew that he could eliminate the
servants, for the time being.

"Which one of you is the valet?" he asked with final resolve.

"I am, sir!"

Drew ran his eyes over an aged man in white vest and tight-fitting
clothes which were studded here and there with gold-plated buttons. The
fit of the stockings--the neatness of the low patent-leather shoes--the
smartness and aloofness of the individual, caused the d