By the time we had reached the fifth hole, his score was approaching forty. I had seen him play some rather poor golf, but never such a game as he was playing to-day. When the ball had dropped into the sixth hole, he motioned to me and walked over to a clump of trees by the side of the course. As he flung himself down upon the ground, I followed his example, wondering why he had interrupted his game. He took a cigarette from a case, which he passed to me, lighted it, and then said: “I have been wondering, Pelt, if you told me everything that you observed that night you found Warren dead in his library. From what Ranville and the chief tell me, there have been no clews of any sort. Not a thing which would point to any particular person as the murderer. In a sense that is unusual. And as I have run this thing over in my mind, I have been wondering—wondering if there is anything which you did not tell me.” I assured him that he must know, either from what I had told him or Ranville, everything that was of importance. But he shook his head as if he did not agree. He suggested I start in at the beginning and tell him the story as if he was hearing it for the first time. And so, carefully picking my words, I started to tell him of everything we had seen from the time we left the house until after we had found the body. When I came to the place where I said the body lay in a queer position on the floor he stopped me. “There is something new, Pelt. What do you mean by a queer position?” “Why, the arms were extended from the body,” was my reply. He gave me one look, and then drew a figure with the end of his golf stick—a figure upon the grass in the shape of a cross. “Like that?” he asked. I nodded, and as he said nothing, added I had told Carter it seemed impossible for a man to fall in such a position. For a moment I saw his face become very thoughtful, and then he said: “You are right about that, Pelt. He was struck by a dagger—struck suddenly through the heart. When he fell from his chair to the floor, the odds were a thousand to one against his falling in that position.” Across the green a squirrel dashed down a tree, ran across the grass and scampered up another tree. Bartley watched it with a very peculiar expression on his face. Then he turned to me: “As I understand it, Pelt, the Chinaman was at the library just before six o'clock. He says the door was open, and that he found Warren dead. Let us believe the story. The housekeeper was at the library sometime between six and seven. She found the door locked; what is more, she claimed she thought she heard some one in the building. That may not be so; her fear and nervousness might have suggested it.”