“Unless my little detectives have deceived me,” he said, “you’ll find the body in there.” She groped, and drew forth a large box. In it was packed the body of Peter Paul. There was a cord about the fat neck. “Strangled,” whispered the girl. “Poor old doggie!” Then she whirled upon the prostrate man. “You murderer!” she said very low. “It’s not murder to put a dying brute out of the way,” said the shaken man sullenly. “But it’s fraud, in this case,” retorted Average Jones. “A fraud of which you’re self-convicted. Get up.” He himself rose and stepped back, but his eye was intent, and his muscles were in readiness. There was no more fight in judge “Oily” Ackroyd. He slunk to the stairs and limped heavily down to his frightened and sobbing wife. Miss Graham leaned against the wall, white and spent. Average Jones, his heart in his eyes, took a step forward. “No!” she said peremptorily. “Don’t touch me. I shall be all right.” “Do you mind my saying,” said he, very low, “that you are the bravest and finest human being I’ve met in a—a somewhat varied career.” The girl shuddered. “I could have stood it all,” she said, “but for those awful, crawling, red creatures.” “Those?” said Average Jones. “Why, they were my bloodhounds, my little detectives. There’s nothing very awful about those, Sylvia. They’ve done their work as nature gave ’em to do it. I knew that as soon as they got out, they would find the trail.” “And what are they?” “Carrion beetles,” said Average Jones. “Where the vultures of the insect kingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies.” Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. “I’m all right now,” she pronounced. “There’s nothing left, I suppose, but to leave this house. And to thank you. How am I ever to thank you?” She lifted her eyes to his. “Never mind the thanks,” said Average Jones unevenly. “It was nothing.” “It was everything! It was wonderful!” cried the girl, and held out her slender hands to him. As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones’ reason lost its balance. He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocal footing; he forgot that he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham’s near relative; he forgot that this was but his third meeting with Sylvia Graham herself; he forgot everything except that the sum total of all that was sweetest and finest and most desirable in womanhood stood warm and vivid before him; and, bending over the little, clinging hands, he pressed his lips to them. Only for a moment. The hands slipped from his. There was a quick, frightened gasp, and the girl’s face, all aflush with a new, sweet fearfulness and wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderous swinging door. The young man’s knees shook a little as he walked forward and put his lips close to the lintel. “Sylvia.” There was a faint rustle from within. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad. Gladder than of anything I’ve ever done in my life.” Silence from within.