I looked blankly from one to the other. There was a confused horror in my mind, but from the confusion one thought rose clear—Barker had done the best, the only thing. The inspector, ostentatiously cool in the midst of our aghast concern, volunteered further: "He didn’t die till near morning and we got a full statement out of him. For an hour afterward he was as clear as a bell—they are that way sometimes—and gave us all the particulars, seemed to want to. I’ve got it upstairs and from what I can make out he was one of the sharpest, most daring criminals I ever ran up against. I’ve had the body kept here for your identification. Will you come up and see it now?" He moved off toward the stairs. O’Mally and Babbitts, muttering together, filing after him. I didn’t go but turned to Carol, who had thrust one hand through the balustrade that ran up beside where we were standing. As the tramp of ascending feet sounded on the first steps, she leaned toward me, her voice hardly more than a whisper: "Do you know who it is?" "Who what is?" I said, startled by her words and expression. "The man upstairs?" I was terror-stricken—the experiences of the night had unhinged her mind. I tried to take her hand, but she drew it back, her lips forming words just loud enough for me to hear: "You don’t. It’s Hollings Harland." "Carol!" I cried, certain now she was unbalanced. She drew farther away from me and slipping her hand from the balustrade pointed up the stairs: "Go and see. It’s he. There’s nothing the matter with me, but I want you to see for yourself. Go and see and then come back here and I’ll tell you. I know everything now." I went, a wild rush up the stairs. In a room off the upper hall, the light tempered by drawn blinds, were O’Mally, Babbitts and the inspector, looking at the dead body of Hollings Harland. CHAPTER XX JACK TELLS THE STORY When I came down she was waiting for me. With a finger against her lips in a command for silence, she turned and went along the passage to the door from which I had seen her enter. I followed her and catching up with her as she placed her hand on the knob, burst out: "What is it—what _does_ it mean? Where’s Barker? In the name of Heaven tell me quickly what _has_ happened?" "I’ll tell you in here," she said softly, and opening the door preceded me into the room. It was evidently the dining-room of the house, a round table standing in the center, a sideboard with glass and china on it against the wall. A coal fire burned in the grate, and the blinds were raised showing the dazzling glitter of the snow outside. It was warm and bright, the one place in that sinister house that seemed to have a human note about it. She passed round the table to the fire and, standing there, made a gesture that swept the walls and unveiled windows: "Last night in this room I at last understood the tragedy in which we’ve all been involved."