A horrified exclamation from his companion did not check him. A second, and more urgent one, did. On the threshold of the window he turned and looked back. To his horror he saw the big man leaning on the writing-desk in a curiously sagging attitude, one hand to his chest; and below the hand an unmistakably red stream trickled slowly down across his white shirt-front. Before Mr. Priestley’s horrified eyes he crumpled slowly up without a word and collapsed on to the floor, where he lay hideously still. The girl was staring at him too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly she turned a horrified face to Mr. Priestley and gazed at him with wide eyes. “It—it must have been loaded after all!” she whispered in strangled tones. Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then:— “I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come and feel!” Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he was doing. “Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily. Mr. Priestley went. The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left he was far too agitated to notice. “Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously. “No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit. The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid finality. They stared at each other. “Good God!” muttered Mr. Priestley distractedly. “What on earth had we better do?” The girl gave him no help. “It’s murder,” she said shortly. “But—but—good God, I never _meant_ to kill him! It isn’t _murder_. I thought the revolver was loaded with blank ammunition, as you said.” “So did I!” said the girl helplessly. “I’m sure I told my maid to load it with blank. But you wouldn’t believe how careless that girl is. I knew she’d be getting me into trouble one of these days.” The corpse’s face twitched spasmodically, but Mr. Priestley was fortunately still engaged in staring at the cause of all his trouble. “And it won’t help you in the least to say you thought it wasn’t loaded,” that lady told him frankly. “They’ll know we came here after those miniatures. You’re known to the police, I suppose; and of course I am. It’s not much good saying we shot him by mistake; it’s murder they’ll try us for. If we’re caught, it’s a hanging job for both of us.” “There’s no need,” said Mr. Priestley slowly, “for you to appear in it at all. After all, it was I who shot him; nobody’s going to know there were two of us. We’d better separate, and you can——” “’Ullo!” said a gruff voice from the open window—a really gruff voice this time. “What’s all this about, eh?”