At the heels of the burly constable, who was that common type of man whose eagerness to serve himself makes him the cat’s-paw of his superiors, Sheridan Keene followed through the dim hall and down a back stairway, and entered a basement laundry. From the single window a part of one pane was missing, making the room easy of access from without; and upon the plank floor, extending from the window toward the entry door, were several marks of muddy boots. “D’ye see that, and them?” triumphantly demanded Mr. Bragg, pointing first to the window and then the floor. “It came cold late last night, and the ground was soft in the early evening. The sawbones says Moore was killed before midnight. The party who entered that window, and stole out here and upstairs, was the party who searched the desk and most likely did the rest of the job. It was done in the evening.” “By Jove! I believe you’ve struck the trail, constable!” said Keene admiringly. “I know I’ve struck it!” declared Mr. Bragg, with a twitch of his bushy beard. “Now come outside here!” He led the way through the entry and out of a narrow back door, and thence around to one side of the house. The soil of a flower bed under the windows of Moore’s chamber was then frozen hard. But in several places among the dead plants and vines were the clearly defined footprints of a man’s heavy boots; deeper here and there, as if he had at times stood on tiptoe to reach the height of the window and peer into the room. “What d’ye say to that?” demanded Mr. Bragg. “I’ll say nothing till you see fit to do so!” said Keene significantly. “Good for you!” nodded the constable approvingly. “Now, let’s return by the front door.” “Wait a moment, constable,” said Sheridan Keene. “I’d like a little more light on this affair, if you don’t mind. Who discovered the crime?” Mr. Bragg demurred for a moment, but visions of an appointment under Chief Watts led him to respond to the request. He had lost sight of the provisions under which the promise of influence had been made. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Haynie,” he replied. “At what hour; do you know?” “Nigh half past eight.” “Did she give the alarm?” “She ran to one of the neighbors, a piece up the road, here, scared half out of her wits. One of ’em came down here at once, and one went to tell Thorpe at the turnpike tavern, half a mile away. Dick mounted his horse and struck around to my house to notify me, in which he showed his good sense; and we came up here together. Then he sent the telegram to Mr. French, and word to Mabel Jeffrey.” “Then Mr. Thorpe was not at home here last night?” “No, he wasn’t,” said Mr. Bragg glibly. “He was at the road house all night. Leastwise, he was with Mabel part of the evening, waiting to see her husband. He’s been trying, you see, to fix up things between them and the old man. But Bob Jeffrey didn’t show up till midnight. Dick had dropped into the road house for a drink, and joined in a game of cards.”