But in the morning Henry Blaine did not carry out his expressed intention. Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at the headlines in a paper spread out before him. The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some fashion it had been accidentally discharged. "I wonder if I did the right thing!" mused Blaine. "He had the courage to do it, after all. Blood will tell, in the end." CHAPTER XIX THE UNSEEN LISTENER "There's a man outside who wishes to speak to you, sir. Says his name is Hicks, but won't tell his business." Blaine looked up from the paper. "Never heard of him. What sort of a man, Marsh?" "Old, white-haired, carries himself like an old family servant of some sort. Looks as if he'd been crying. He's trembling so he can scarcely stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message for you, and must see you personally." "Very well. Show him in." "Thank you for receiving me, sir." A quavering old voice sounded from the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there. "Come in, Hicks." The detective's voice was kindly. "Sit down here, and tell me what I can do for you." "I bring you a message, sir." The man tottered to the chair and sank into it. "A message from the dead." Blaine leaned forward suddenly. "You were--" "Mr. Rockamore's valet, sir, and his father's before him. I loved him as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was I who found him this morning--" His voice broke, and he bowed his head upon his wrinkled hands. No tears came--but the thin shoulders shook, and a dry sob tore its way from the gaunt throat. Blaine waited until the paroxysm had ceased, and then urged, gently: "Go on, Hicks. You have something to tell me?" "Yes, sir. The coroner and the press call it accidental death, but I--may God forgive me for saying it--I know better! He left word where none could find it but me, that you knew the truth, and he bade me give you--this!" He produced a large, square envelope from an inner pocket, and extended it in his trembling hand to the detective. Without glancing at it, Blaine laid it on the desk before him. "Where did you discover this?"