I found it without any trouble and, putting on the catch, played the light hastily around the room. Just what I expected to see I cannot say; but the brief sweep which I made over the floor and the walls revealed nothing. The room evidently took in the entire house, and the walls showed only long lines of books, and a gallery which ran around the eight sides. In the center was a large desk, the surface littered with books and papers. But of Warren there was not a trace. Turning the light to the door, I found the spring lock was on. It took but a second to fling the door open, and Carter and Ranville slipped within. The same question was on both faces, and I slowly shook my head in reply. Carter's first words were for me to find the switch for the lights. The button was near the door, and, pressing it, the room in an instant was a blaze of light. The room was octagonal in shape, with a window placed high on each of the sides. The wall space was filled with bookcases, and there must have been many thousand volumes. A gallery at a height of around twelve feet ran completely around the room. Even this was filled with books. The furniture was simple. Near the door stood a safe, and there were a number of stands in various corners. But in the center of the room was the largest desk I had ever seen—a huge affair made out of an old-fashioned square piano—with its surface littered with books and papers. Near it stood a typewriter stand, with the machine uncovered. And then, suddenly, we saw something else—something which drove all other thoughts from our minds. Peering from behind the desk was a foot—a foot which did not move. We must have seen it at the same moment, for Carter's hand gripped my arm, and for a second we stood silent. Then without a word slowly we went across the floor, knowing what we would find. Though we were sure what was behind the desk, yet it came as a shock. For there, lying on his back upon the floor—with both arms outstretched from the body—lay a man. A man to whom the dinner waiting in the big house would never matter; and it needed but a glance to know that death had come suddenly—and violently. As Ranville's eyes and mine met, they framed the same question. It was Carter who spoke the two words: “It's Warren.” The scientist was a man of about fifty, and perhaps a little over that age. The face was self-willed, and the lines around the distorted lips were stern. Though past middle life, his hair was a dense black, without a sign of gray, and there was not a white hair in the close-cropped mustache. One could tell by his figure that he had been a man of the strongest physique. He was dressed in a light summer suit, without a coat, and upon the white shirt, just over the heart, was a crimson stain.