visible windows were illuminated. A sort of loggia ran along one
side.

On our left, as we made for this, lay a black ocean of shrubbery.
It intruded, raggedly, upon the weed-grown path, for neglect was
the keynote of the place.

We entered the cottage, crossed the tiny lobby, and came to the
study. A man, evidently Deeping's servant, was sitting in a chair
by the door, his head sunken in his hands. He looked up,
haggard-faced.

"My God! my God!" he groaned. "He was locked in, gentlemen! He
was locked in; and yet something murdered him!"

"What do you mean?" said Bristol. "Where were you?"

"I was away on an errand, sir. When I returned, the police were
knocking the door down. He was locked in!"

We passed him, entering the study.

It was a museum-like room, lighted by a lamp on the littered
table. At first glance it looked as though some wild thing had
run amok there. The disorder was indescribable.

"Touched nothing, of course?" asked Bristol sharply of the officer
on duty.

"Nothing, sir. It's just as we found it when we forced the door."