As we walked rapidly toward the house the events of the preceding night recurred to me, but I had no time then nor was I in a sufficiently composed mind to analyze them nor find their bearing, if any, on the subsequent events of the night. Of Benton I asked no more questions; it did not seem worth the while. He had apparently told all he knew of real importance or if he knew more it was not likely I could easily elicit it. Afterwards, I over and over again tried to trace in the events of that evening some drift towards this tragedy, and I had much to ask of Benton. But later I will tell of it all. When we reached the house, Benton still dogging my footsteps, a few idlers gathered about the door were the only evidence of anything unusual having happened; but as I entered the doorway, I was stopped by a policeman, who refused me admission. He recognized Benton, however, and sent him for some superior, who appeared in the person of Detective Miles, whom I knew, and who admitted me. I remember I hesitated at the sitting-room entrance. It was terrible to think of looking upon the dead body of a man I had left strong and well only a few hours before. The detective observed my action as he stood by to let me enter and said: "It is a case of murder, Mr. Dallas, but there are no evidences of a struggle, and the victim looks as if he were only asleep." A little ashamed of my momentary weakness, I crossed the threshold and stood in the room. For a moment I looked about me, avoiding unconsciously the first glance at the poor boy whom I knew lay on the divan. Everything seemed as we had left it the night before. The cards and score-card were still scattered over the centre table, the dishes and glasses stood on the sideboard--they had not even been washed,--and as far as I could judge, the chairs were arranged just as we had occupied them; it was hard to realize I had been away. Then I looked at the divan. Yes, White was there, and, as the detective had said, looked as if asleep. He was dressed as when I left him, in his evening clothes, and lay as a tired boy might have tossed himself down, resting on his right side with his head drooping on the edge of the pillow, one arm thrown over it, and his face partially hidden. For a moment I thought it all must be some horrible mistake or a dream, so impossible did it seem that he was dead, but then, the detective, who had stepped to the divan, placed his hand significantly on something scarcely observable protruding from his back, just behind the left shoulder. It was the hilt of a dagger; the blade was buried.