Side by side with the classics of the underworld of literature stood the witty and immoral romances of the eighteenth century of France. But there were a few modern books, decidedly pornographic in type, which flanked the more classical ones. An odd collection at the best, worth a good deal of money, it is true. But the oddest thing to explain was why some one had broken the glass to get at the contents of the case. The Englishman gave a low whistle, and I saw his eyebrows raise. Reaching in his hand, it came forth with a volume. It stood on the shelf which had the empty space, the one where, if the broken gap told the truth, several books were missing. He turned the leaves slowly, shrugged his shoulders at several of the engravings, and then without a word handed the book to me. It was the first volume of De Sade's “Justine,” the first edition with the illustrations. I remembered once hearing Bartley say that it was the worst book ever written and very difficult to secure. In turn, without speaking, I handed the thin volume to Carter just as Ranville expressed what was in his mind. “That's not only a pretty rare book, but it is also a rather rotten one. It looks very much as if some one smashed the glass in this case to get at the books. What they took I cannot tell, though it might be the other volumes of that ‘Justine.’ I cannot understand why any murderer should want the books. Besides, it's the French edition, and not every chap reads French, you know.” We agreed to this, and placed the book back in the case. Then climbing a narrow winding stairs, we went up to the gallery. It ran around the entire length of the room—a narrow gallery, built evidently to give more space for books. The walls were lined with books, thousands of them, of every kind. But there were no doors or glass before the cases in the gallery. Nothing had been disturbed so far as we could see. I glanced over the rail to the floor below, giving a shudder as my eyes fell upon the still figure by the desk—the figure with the outstretched arms. Leaving the gallery, we tried the rear door, finding as we expected that it was locked. As both doors had a spring lock, it would have been only necessary for the murderer to close them when he went out. But why the windows were down, and also locked, puzzled us. It had been a warm day, and it hardly seemed possible that Warren had worked in a room without any fresh air. We were commenting on this when there came a voice from the front door, and two men stepped into the room. One was a very short man with a vivid red face, and I could tell by his blue uniform that it was the chief of police. He was very warm, as if he had been hurrying, and there was a questioning look in the glance he gave us. He had a rather kindly face, though it was not an over-intelligent one, and I decided that he did not fancy the task before him. The young man with him he introduced as the coroner, a young man named Hasty.