As she ran down the walk, slipping, stumbling, the bells in the library tower rang out twice, musically clear on the frosty air--fifteen minutes past twelve. And approaching, she saw her neighbor, the assistant professor of history, returning from the examination. Mrs. Turner flung herself heavily upon him. His spectacles slipped from his nose. The armful of thin "blue books" he was carrying littered the walk. He parried awkwardly with hands that were encased in gray-striped woolen mittens. "Madame! Madame!" he cried, "what the--what is the matter--are you crazy?" Mrs. Turner gasped--gasped like a pickerel dying on the grass. It was quite half a minute before she found her voice and when she spoke it was with many vocal quavers. "Oh, Professor Lowe! Professor Lowe!" she wailed, "Mr. Catherwood--Mr. Catherwood----" "Well, well; what of him, madame, what of him?" The assistant professor spoke sharply. "_He's been murdered!_" "WHAT!" She seized him by the arm. "Come--come, quick," she cried. "He's on the bed: his face is all blood." "Yes, yes," he replied, stooping and hastily gathering up the "blue books"--"I'll fling these in the hall; you run on ahead--I'll be right there." From the doorway he called to his wife, "Young man murdered next door, Jenny," and from the porch at the end nearest Mrs. Turner's house he leaped into a snow-drift. He floundered out and into the house as his wife appeared upon the porch wringing her hands and moaning. He bounded up the stairs in the wake of Mrs. Turner and brushed past her into the room of horror. He brought up stock still and looked about. "There's the corpse! There; over there on the bed!" the woman wailed, frantically. He pulled away the piled chairs, and seizing the body rolled it upon its back. Over Catherwood's eyes was bound a strip of cloth and a gag made of a stocking was tied across his mouth. The assistant professor unknotted the gag with trembling fingers and tore away the blindfold and Catherwood blinked up at him owlishly. "Are you dead?" the assistant professor asked with bated breath. Catherwood's mouth worked convulsively and then he muttered hoarsely: "Water! water!" Mrs. Turner hurried to the bathroom and returned with a cup, which the assistant professor took from her and held to the young man's lips. He gulped eagerly. "Look at his face!" cried Mrs. Turner. It was streaked and spotted with a brown stain. "Is it blood?" The woman shivered. The assistant professor sniffed. "Iodine," he exclaimed. "And see," he added, stooping, "here's the bottle." He held up the phial that had caught his eye where it lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Untie my hands," Catherwood gurgled--"Here, behind me!" They were tied securely by two handkerchiefs knotted together. The assistant professor fumbled at the loops. He disengaged the swollen wrists and Catherwood sat up in bed. He loosened the bindings of his ankles himself and stood up. "Whew!" he whistled.