Sheridan Keene looked the latter over. He was a well-built man of twenty-five, this nephew of the deceased. He had a frank and rather attractive face, with dark eyes and hair, and was the style of a man most women would have fancied, despite Mabel Moore’s evident aversion to marrying him. His features were pale now, and his manner gravely composed. “I have already sent for the coroner, doctor,” he replied. “Let everything remain as it is, then, until he comes.” “He should be here now.” “It is a case, I think,” added the physician, “which will require capable investigation. Would it not be well to send into Boston for a competent detective?” “I have sent for Lawyer French, my uncle’s solicitor,” replied Thorpe, “and I shall place matters entirely in his hands on his arrival. I think that would be my uncle’s own wish if he were alive, instead of lying there, the victim of perfidious cowardice and foul play; and I shall be governed accordingly. I think I had better---- Beg pardon, sir! Who are you?” He had turned slightly, and now observed Sheridan Keene standing just within the threshold. The detective approached with a grave bow, and without a glance at the gruesome figure on the bed. “My name is Keene, and I am Mr. French’s clerk,” he explained politely. “I have just arrived with the attorney.” “Oh, yes. Excuse me!” cried Thorpe, quickly offering his hand. “Where is Mr. French?” “He is in the library with Mrs. Jeffrey!” “I must see him at once!” “Oh, by the way,” and Thorpe quickly turned back, “this is Doctor Carr, our local physician, Mr. Keene, and this is Mr. Bragg, the constable. They will give you any information you may desire, and I shall now request Mr. French to take entire charge of this dreadful affair. He will know all about the law bearing upon it, of which I know nothing. You will excuse me, won’t you?” The detective bowed and gravely acknowledged the introduction to the two men remaining, while Richard Thorpe hurried from the room to seek the attorney. Sheridan Keene sized up at a glance the two men left in his company. The physician was an ordinary old gentleman, and presented nothing of interest. Not so, however, the other. Jim Bragg was a burly man, with coal-black eyes and a bushy beard. He was a capital fellow for battering down a door and entering a dive of lawless ruffians, where indomitable courage was an absolute requisite; for such an occasion, you would have to go far to find Jim Bragg’s better. But the ferreting out of a cunning, well-wrought piece of knavery was utterly beyond Mr. Bragg’s ability.