The library was a square room of moderate size, comfortably, though simply furnished. An open desk stood against one of the walls, with a rise of shelves on each side, partly filled with books. In the middle of the room was a square, cloth-topped table, on which were several books and newspapers, also an oil lamp with a green porcelain shade. A large leather-covered armchair stood near the table, between it and a swivel chair in front of the desk. A smaller chair near a window, the roller shade of which was partly drawn down, was overturned on the floor. To the right of the window hung a portière consisting of two heavy tapestry curtains, suspended from a black walnut rod. They were drawn nearly together, but between them could be seen a double door with small, leaded glass windows. It opened upon a side veranda overlooking the tree-shaded grounds east of and to the rear of the dwelling. Nick noticed that one of the curtains was awry, and, glancing up, he saw that it had been torn from one of the pins that fastened it to the transverse rod above the door. On the floor between this door and the table lay the body of the murdered priest. He was a man of middle size, wearing the conventional black garments of his calling. He was lying on his back, with his arms extended, his head nearly touching a leg of the table, and with his smooth-shaved face upturned in plain view of the detectives, a face on which the pallor and peace of death long since had fallen. Father Cleary had been stabbed twice in the breast, nearly in a line with his heart, and his garments and the rug on which he was lying were saturated with blood, then dark and congealed. Nick Carter saw at a glance that the priest had been dead for several hours. “The scene is suggestive, Fallon; very suggestive,” he said, after a few moments. “We will proceed deliberately, however, since nothing can be done for this man. It’s a case of murder, pure and simple, if that can be. Let Grady wait in the hall. I will study the evidence in detail.” Fallon nodded and glanced significantly at the policeman. Nick crossed the room and raised the window curtain. In the brighter light that entered, the scene was even more vividly tragic and gruesome. “No weapon is here,” said he, with searching gaze while he crouched to examine the corpse. “The assassin took care not to leave it. It evidently was a dagger, or a knife with a broad blade. Note the two gashes in the garments. Either thrust would have been fatal. This man has been dead since last evening, probably as early as nine o’clock.” Nick had lifted one stiffened arm while speaking and dropped it to the floor. “Surely,” Fallon said simply. “Here are stains of ink on his middle finger. He evidently was writing when----” Nick did not finish the remark. He arose and turned to the open desk, then approached it. A sheet of paper was lying on it, also a pen that evidently had been abruptly dropped. “Ah, here is proof of it,” said Nick.