“You will see. Get up, now; don’t lose a second.” Carpentaria was off again. He returned to Ilam’s house, and climbed to the balcony of the window of Mrs. Ilam’s bedroom. It was fortunate that he had preserved the rope, for he could not have climbed with the trombone in his arms. His method was to leave the trombone on the ground, the rope tied to it; he kept the other end of the rope in his hand, and drew the trombone after him. Then it was that he sounded on the trombone the terrible phrase of Beethoven’s, which put a period to the struggle between Ilam and Jetsam. He felt for the handle of the French window, and, finding the window fastened on the inside, adopted the simple device of leaning with his full weight against the window-frame. The whole thing gave way, and through a crashing of glass, a splintering of wood, and the tearing of curtains he backed into the room, the trombone held precariously in one hand and his revolver very firmly in the other. The scene that confronted him was sufficiently surprising. Amid the extraordinary disorder of the chamber he found its three occupants all stretched on the floor. The old woman was apparently oblivious, but the two men, releasing each other, gazed at him for all the world like two schoolboys caught in an act contrary to discipline. “Did I startle you? I hope so,” said Carpentaria, when he had found his bearings. “I meant to.” Jetsam was the first to rise. “You with the red hair!” cried Jetsam. “You are trying to save my life again!” “Never mind my red hair,” said Carpentaria, ruffled. “I am not trying to save anybody’s life. I’m here on a mission of inquiry. No one leaves this room until I have had a full explanation of everything. I have stood just about as much as I can stand of the mystery that has been hanging over this City for a week past. Ilam, let me beg you to get up and take a seat over there in that corner. Thanks!” He relinquished the musical instrument as Ilam clumsily resumed his feet and obeyed. “As for you, Mr. Jetsam,” continued Carpentaria, “you know, from accounts which have reached me, the precise moral effect of a loaded revolver such as I am now pointing at you. Go into the other corner.” “I won’t,” said Jetsam. “You can fire if you like. As a matter of fact, you daren’t.” “You propose to leave the room and defy me?” “I propose to leave the room.” “Listen,” said Carpentaria. He took the trombone and blew on it loudly a few notes which neither Jetsam nor Ilam immediately recognized. But the musicians, who had by this time surrounded the house, recognized them. And at once there entered by the smashed window the solemn and moving strains of the Dead March in “Saul.” The house seemed to be ringed in a circle of awful melody. Jetsam shuddered. “Now kindly stay where you are,” said Carpentaria. And Jetsam stayed where he was, at the foot of the bed, his back to Mrs. Ilam’s prone figure. The playing continued. “What foolery is this?” demanded Ilam slowly.