"That is one way of looking at it." "Is there any other way?" His voice snapped out the question as if he held the barrister personally responsible for his failure to gain a clue. "No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point of view exactly." "My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to draw up another chair and light a pipe? Should we be enlightened by tobacco smoke?" "I cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar." The detective angrily thumped a Chesterfield lounge to see if it betrayed aught suspicious. At that instant Bruce's glance rested on the fireplace. The grate contained the ashes of a fire,--a fire not long lighted. This, combined with the undrawn blinds, argued a departure early in the morning. "He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel service," mused Bruce. "He may have departed a few hours after Lady Dyke's death, as Mrs. Hillmer was not certain as to the exact date." Somehow the few cinders attracted him. They had, perchance, witnessed a tragedy. Suddenly he stopped smoking. He was so startled by something he had seen that the policeman must have noticed his agitation were not the detective at that instant intently screwing his eyes to peer behind the back of the elaborate cabinet. On the hearth was a handsome Venetian fender. Into each end was loosely socketed a beautifully moulded piece of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That on the left was whole, but from that on the right a small spike had been broken off. By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in the skull of the murdered woman. Of this damning fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the incriminatory article itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence. He did not move. He sat as one transfixed. What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish instrument used with murderous intent? The entire bracket could easily be detached from the fender, and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why seize this clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy brass poker? The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible, strange beyond belief. Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy, as he saw the ill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground before a treacherous and crushing stroke, a fierce light leaped into his face, and his lips set tight with unflinching purpose. Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he would assuredly have been lodged in a felon's cell forthwith. No excuse, no palliation, would be accepted. The man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly, high-minded woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter what the circumstances that led to the commission of the crime. It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master reason so utterly.