“Binney’s dying,” he told himself, “he’s been murdered! Gee! what an excitement there will be! He’s babbling,—he’s going to tell who killed him! If I scoot for Doctor Pagett, this chap’ll be dead before I get back,—if I wait,—I’ll be called down for not going—but I must get it out of him,—if I can—what is that, Sir, try to tell me——” Bending over the stricken man, Moore listened intently, and caught the words,—or words which sounded like,—“Get—them—get J—J—anyway,—get—J——” With a sudden gasping gurgle, the man was dead. Bewildered, but striving hard to grasp the situation and do his exact duty, Moore looked about, and quickly concluded his next move was to call the doctor. Pagett, on the second floor, was the physician of the house, and Moore raced up the stairs to his apartment. Ringing the bell continuously brought the doctor to the door. “What’s happened?” he said, sleepily. “Murder!” answered Moore, briefly. “Hike into some clothes and get downstairs. Sir Herbert Binney’s been done for!” Not waiting, Moore ran back down the stairs, and took his station guarding the dead man. He resolved to touch nothing, but his attention at once fell on a bit of paper, on which Binney had evidently been scrawling some message, with the pencil that had at last fallen from his nerveless fingers. Careful not to touch the paper, Moore devoured it with his eyes. This is what he read: [Illustration (handwritten note): women did this get [unreadable]] CHAPTER IV The Busy Police But even the astonishing disclosure of the scrawled statement did not cause Bob Moore to lose his head. Excited and startled though he was, he was also alertly conscious that he must conduct himself with care. He had a vague fear that he might be connected with the case and weirdly enough he had a secret fear that he might not! Already in fancy he saw himself doing marvelously clever detective work that should result in getting the criminal of whom the dying efforts of the victim strove to tell him. But he must be careful not to put himself forward, not to overstep his privileges, and, above all, not to seem too eager to help in the search for the murderer, for he felt sure his offers of assistance would be deemed presumptuous. Doctor Pagett came running down the stairs, knotting his necktie as he descended. “Binney!” he exclaimed; “the Englishman who makes Buns. What’s this paper?” “I haven’t touched it, Doctor; I haven’t touched anything. You can see for yourself what the paper says.” “Women did this,” said the doctor, his eyes fairly bulging; “what—what does it mean? Where were you?” “Up at the tenth floor, taking Mr Vail up. He came in,—there was no Binney about then!—and I took him up in the elevator to his floor, and when I came down, Mr Binney was there just as you see him now,—only, he was still alive.” “Alive!” “Yes, sir,—just dying. He mumbled a word or two——” “What did he say?”