We fell into the car, and almost before we were seated, Carter started with a jerk. Before we reached the street it was in high, and we swept out of the drive in a sharp curve. Then with the car increasing in speed every second we started down the lighted street. Not a word was said. I could see Carter's face, set and determined, as he drove his car, first at forty, then crept to fifty, and settled down around sixty. Down the wide street we swept, with people turning to look at us in amazement as we dashed past them with the siren wide open. As we came around the bend of the street, where the road led straight as an arrow to Warren's estate, Ranville spoke. He was the first one to speak since we had left the house. And what he said seemed far more spoken to himself than any one else. “So there is something in the library that some one is after,” came his musing voice. “Of course,” Bartley shot back at him. “And what is more, I have been afraid all day that this might happen. I did not want a murder to take place, but if something did happen—an attack on Patton or a burglary—then it would prove a theory that I have.” With a glance over his shoulder, Carter shot out: “Got another one of your hunches, John?” The car was slowing down. In front of us, through the gathering dusk, loomed the wall which enclosed the Warren estate. As the car stopped and we jumped out, Bartley answered Carter's question. “Call it that, Carter,” he said. “I think we will discover something to-night.” Nothing else was said, and on a half run we rushed through the gate and up the path which led to the house. As we turned to the path which ran through the hedges, I gave one glance back at the house. Through the semi-darkness there came the friendly gleam of a light, but there were no signs of confusion, or of any one about. Up the path we ran, and then, as the hedge ended, we could see the eight-sided library before us. Every light seemed to be on, and the front door was slightly open. But of Patton we did not see a sign until we rushed into the building. Then we saw him standing silently near the desk. He whirled around as we entered, and I saw a look of relief sweep his face. One thing struck me sharply—in his hand was a revolver—a revolver which he was gripping firmly. He started down the room to meet us. His face seemed strained, though there was no fear in it. The color had gone out of his cheeks as if there had come some sudden shock. He said nothing, but as we reached his side, he took us around the desk and pointed to the door at the extreme end of the room. For a moment I saw nothing, and then as I took one step forward, I paused and came to a halt. For there by the door, huddled in a heap on the floor, lay the figure of a man—a man who did not move, a man whose appearance seemed to fill the silent room with dignity, a man whom I knew in a glance was dead.