“‘Last night, at the solemn hour of midnight, another murder was added to the long list of crimes that have made bloody abattoirs of the temples of chance here and elsewhere. The “Osirian” clubhouse was the scene of the grim tragedy. The details of the killing are somewhat obscure, but it seems that William Langford, the young son of one of our most respected citizens, and James Harding, better known as the “Professor,” met in one of the private rooms of the Osirian for a quiet game of draw. About midnight a pistol shot rang out, and those who rushed to the scene found Harding weltering in his blood. He had been shot in the face as he sat in his chair, the bullet--a 45-calibre Colt--entering beside the left eye and passing out at the back to bury itself in the wall. “‘The affair is shrouded in mystery, which will probably not be cleared up until the facts are brought out at the trial. It was at first supposed that young Langford had fired the fatal shot, but when the officers were about to arrest him, Brant, whose presence in the card room is unexplained, stepped out and surrendered himself. The motive for the crime is not far to seek. It is said, by those who know both, that Brant and the “Professor” have long been deadly enemies; and as the former had been seeking the latter at the various resorts in the city, it is supposed that the killing was the culmination of an old feud. “‘Harding’s record is most unsavoury, and he has more than once been a fugitive from justice. The reports about his slayer are conflicting, some asserting that he is no other than “Plucky George” Brant, the notorious snap-shot faro dealer of the mining camps, while others say he is a civil engineer in the employ of the C. E. & W. Ry.’” * * * * * Dorothy went white at the third line of the heading and drew closer to her sister; and Kate was scarcely less moved when she put the paper down at the end. “Isn’t it just simply dreadful!” she said; and the trite phrase showed how far beyond adequate speech the dreadful thing was. Dorothy’s lips moved, but they were too dry to form even the single word of assent, and it was Isabel who answered: “Indeed it is; it’s too awful to realize. But we all ought to be so thankful that Will was cleared so quickly and so easily.” Dorothy drew herself up and stared at her sister as if she doubted that she had heard aright. Was it so easy, then, to choose between one’s lover and one’s brother? “But, sister, is it any less terrible for that?” she cried out reproachfully. “Oh, no; I suppose not. It is too awful to think about, anyway. But it is just what one would expect of Mr. Brant--the giving himself up, I mean. I wonder if what the paper says about him is true--about his double identity.” “How can you think of that now!” Dorothy burst out passionately. “Of course it isn’t true; and even if it were--” She stopped short and caught her breath in a quick gasp, suddenly remembering Brant’s parable.