lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room.
A single glance revealed everything. The table, a common deal affair,
contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty glasses,
together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these
scattered about the floor. There was no other furniture, and the walls
were bare, a dirty gray color. But what my eyes rested upon in sudden
horror, was the body of a man, curled up in a ball on the floor as a
dog lies, his face hidden in his arms. That he was dead I knew at a
glance.

I had seen violent death often, but this was different, and I shrank
back, staring at that motionless form as though stricken by paralysis.
There was no movement in the room, no sound except the fluttering of a
curtain. With effort I gained control over my nerves, and moved slowly
forward, placing my lamp on the table, so as to have both hands free.
This murder--or was it suicide?--had occurred within ten minutes. I
turned the man over, revealing a bearded face, the features prominent
but refined. He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of
excellent material. He had been shot in the back of the head.

It was murder then--murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy
exactly as it must have occurred--the open window, the overturned
chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story. Just what was the
fellow doing here alone at that hour? Why should he have been killed?
Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished
the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted
darkness. A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new
environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and
across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I
stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension,