that he saw.

I was not an expert on study of wounds, such as was Kennedy, who
was examining Murtha's body with minute care, now and then
muttering under his breath at the rough and careless handling it
had received in its various transfers about the city. But there
were some terrible wounds and disfigurements on the body, which
added even more to the horror of the case.

One thing, I felt, was fortunate. Murtha had had no family. There
had been plenty of scandal about him, but as far as I knew there
was no one except his old cronies in the organization to be
shocked by his loss, no living tragedy left in the wake of this.

"How do you suppose it happened?" I asked the night keeper.

He shook his head doubtfully. "No one knows, of course," he
replied slowly. "But I think the big fellow got worse up there in
that asylum. He wasn't used to anything but having his own way,
you know. They say he must have waited his chance, after the
dinner hour, when things were quiet, and then slipped out while no
one was looking. He may have been crazy, but you can bet your life
Pat Murtha was the smartest crazy man they ever had up there. THEY
couldn't hold him."

"I see," I said, struck by the faith which the man had inspired
even in those who held the lowest of city positions. "But I meant
how do you suppose he was killed?"

The attendant looked at me thoughtfully a while. "Young man," he