At last he was within reach of the revolver. His hand shot out in one swift sinuous thrust—clutched the weapon—withdrew. He then concealed the revolver among his tattered garments as best he could and, cautiously as before, inched his chair back again to its original position. When the others noticed him again, the mask of lifelessness was back on his face and one could have sworn he had not changed his position by the breadth of an inch. “There—that unlocked it!” cried Miss Cornelia triumphantly at last, as the key to one of the other closet doors slid smoothly into the lock and she heard the click that meant victory. She was about to throw open the closet door. But Bailey motioned her back. “I’d keep _back_ a little,” he cautioned. “You don’t know what may be inside.” “Mercy sakes, who wants to know?” shivered Lizzie. Dale and Miss Cornelia, too, stepped aside involuntarily as Bailey took the candle and prepared, with a good deal of caution, to open the closet door. The door swung open at last. He could look in. He did so—and stared appalled at what he saw, while goose flesh crawled on his spine and the hairs of his head stood up. After a moment he closed the door of the closet and turned back, white-faced, to the others. “What is it?” said Dale aghast. “What did you see?” Bailey found himself unable to answer for a moment. Then he pulled himself together. He turned to Miss Van Gorder. “Miss Cornelia, I think we have found the ghost the Jap butler saw,” he said slowly. “How are your nerves?” Miss Cornelia extended a hand that did not tremble. “Give me the candle.” He did so. She went to the closet and opened the door. Whatever faults Miss Cornelia may have had, lack of courage was not one of them—or the ability to withstand a stunning mental shock. Had it been otherwise she might well have crumpled to the floor, as if struck down by an invisible hammer, the moment the closet door swung open before her. Huddled on the floor of the closet was the body of a man. So crudely had he been crammed into this hiding-place that he lay twisted and bent. And as if to add to the horror of the moment one arm, released from its confinement, now slipped and slid out into the floor of the room. Miss Cornelia’s voice sounded strange to her own ears when finally she spoke. “But who is it?” “It is—or was—Courtleigh Fleming,” said Bailey dully. “But how can it be? Mr. Fleming died two weeks ago. I—” “He died in this house sometime tonight. The body is still warm.” “But who killed him? The Bat?” “Isn’t it likely that the Doctor did it? The man who has been his accomplice all along? Who probably bought a cadaver out West and buried it with honors here not long ago?” He spoke without bitterness. Whatever resentment he might have felt died in that awful presence. “He got into the house early tonight,” he said, “probably with the Doctor’s connivance. That wrist watch there is probably the luminous eye Lizzie thought she saw.”