“Yes,” said Bartley slowly. “Look where the body was lying. You find it on its face with one hand reaching for the door—the open door only a few inches away. The man was shot in the back while his face was turned away from the person who shot him. He fell, naturally, in the position in which we found him. And that makes me think the gardener came in the rear door, got several feet within the building, when all at once he saw the person engaged in destroying the manuscript.” “But why did he turn to leave then?” was my question. “It is my idea that when he turned to get out of the library, the other person had not seen him. Perhaps, even, the gardener knew who it was. He managed to go several feet before the man fired. I believe when he fired and the man fell and did not stir, he thought he had killed Patton. From the back, with the same colored suit, and the same general build, they look a bit alike.” It seemed logical enough, and I could tell from the men's faces that they agreed. Then all at once Carter gave a sudden cry and said that we must get the chief. He started for the telephone, only to have Bartley call out to him: “George, don't tell the chief what we want him for. Tell him to come right up here, but say nothing about the murder. I have my reasons.” Carter shrugged his shoulders and, after fooling with the phone for some time, managed to get the chief. When he returned to our side, he said the chief was puzzled, wishing to know for what he was wanted, but he would come up right away. With this, we started to examine the room. But after a quick, though very careful, search on the part of Ranville and Bartley, there was nothing of importance found. Only the small pieces of torn paper, which filled the wastebasket and littered the floor by the desk, showed that anything had been touched. There was no doubt these pieces of paper had once comprised Warren's notes—the notes which Patton said he had left on the desk. As we went over to the front door, Ranville, who was in the lead, bent over, and as he straightened up, held in his hand a magazine—a very popular magazine with a gay cover of a girl in a scanty bathing suit. As Bartley saw it, he gave one glance, then turned to Patton. “Two questions, Patton. Did you slip on the rug, and did you buy this magazine when you went to the store?” The rug was a small Turkish one which we had noticed the various times we had been in the library. The colors were so beautiful that no one could help noticing it. It was always just inside the door, but now it was rumpled and disturbed, laying partly across the doorsill. As I looked at it, I decided that some one had slipped upon it. Patton gave the magazine one glance, then gazed at the rug. He slowly shook his head, saying: “It is ‘no’ to both questions.” “Somebody slipped on that rug,” commented Carter.