Nick then removed the weapon from the wound and examined it. It was a double-edged sheath knife with a blade about six inches long, and with an elkhorn handle. It bore no mark of any kind, though it evidently had seen considerable service. “This undoubtedly belongs to the Mexican,” said Nick, placing it on the table after inspecting it. “Not one man in ten thousand in these parts carries such a knife. They’re common in Mexico, however, which further confirms my theory as to the man’s nationality.” “I think you’re right,” said Chick. “It looks very much, too, as if he killed this crook in self-defense.” “That is my opinion, Chick, at present,” Nick replied, turning toward the hall. “We will look farther.” “This way to the kitchen,” said Kennedy. “The other body is there. You can go that way, if you prefer.” The sergeant pointed to a closed door between the dining room and the kitchen, and Nick then turned in that direction. “Did you find this door closed, Kennedy, or open?” he inquired. “Closed, sir, just as you see it,” said Kennedy. “But I know it leads into the kitchen.” “I judged so.” “The fight evidently continued from here to the kitchen, but it was through the hall, not that way,” Kennedy added, as Nick opened the door. The scene in the kitchen was equally tragic, though the room was in less disorder than the other. A door leading into the rear yard was wide open. Nearly on the threshold, so near that one foot touched it, though his head was toward the middle of the room, lay another victim of the fray of the previous night. He then was lying on his back, though the body evidently had been turned over since the fatality, for the pool of blood in which it had lain was at one side. The body was that of a man in the twenties, a well-built man in a dark plaid suit. A woolen cap had fallen from his head. His right arm was extended, the hand still holding with rigid death grip a loaded revolver. He had been shot through the heart. Both detectives immediately recognized this man, and Chick said quickly: “By Jove, it’s Batty Lang, Nick, the gangster. He finally has got what was coming to him.” Nick bowed without speaking, with his gaze still fixed intently upon the man on the floor. He was noting his position, the direction in which he had fallen, the weapon in his extended hand, and the outlook through the open back door. Doctor Boyden broke the brief silence. “You appear to know this man, also, Mr. Carter,” he said gravely. “Yes, I know him,” Nick now replied. “His name is Bartholomew Lang. He is an East Side product, and at times has been identified with the notorious Ben Badger gang. He is more commonly called Batty Lang.” “Good heavens!” Doctor Boyden exclaimed. “It appears, then, that the house was filled with crooks and desperadoes last evening.”