“It seems the butler or housekeeper was in the habit of taking tea to Mr. Tracy’s room of a morning, at nine o’clock. Well, this morning, the door was locked and nobody responded to knocks on it. So—you can get the connecting data later, sir—they broke in, and found Mr. Tracy dead in bed, with the strangest doings all about.” “What do you mean by strange doings?” “Well, he was all dolled up with flowers and a long red scarf, and, if you please, a red feather duster sticking up behind his head——” “Did you see all this?” demanded Moore, his eyes growing darker every minute. “Yes, and that’s not half! There was an orange in his hand and crackers on his pillow and a crucifix against his breast——” “Come on,” said Moore, quietly, but in a tone of suppressed excitement. “Let’s get over there before they disturb all that scenery! I never heard of such astounding conditions.” “No, sir, I’ll say you didn’t,” March agreed. “I felt a bit miffed when they told me to come and get you; any detective would, you know, but when I came to think over all that hodge-podge of evidence, I knew it was a case too big for me to tackle alone. I hope you’ll let me help you, sir.” “Oh, of course,” said Moore, a little impatiently, as he urged the detective to start. “Will your car hold us all?” His glance included me, and March answered; “Oh, yes. I’ve one of Mr. Tracy’s big cars.” When we reached the great house, and stopped at the landing place under the porte-cochère, I was more than ever impressed by the beauty all about. There was nothing glaring or ostentatious. The bit of verandah we traversed to reach the front door was brightened with a few railing flower-boxes and potted palms, but it was quietly dignified and stately. Stately was the key word for the whole place, and I suddenly remembered that Kubla Khan’s Pleasure Dome was described as stately. Surely, Sampson Tracy had sensed the real meaning of the phrase. Inside, the house was the same. Marked everywhere by good taste, the appointments were of the finest and best. There seemed to be a great many people about. Servants were coming and going and policemen were here and there. March took Moore and myself directly to the library, where Inspector Farrell was awaiting us. Also present were Ames, whom we already knew, and a young man, who proved to be Charles Everett, the confidential secretary of the dead man. I took to Everett at once. He was the clean-cut type of so many of our efficient young American secretaries. He looked capable and wise, and being introduced, bowed gravely. Ames took up the matter at once. He looked perturbed rather than grumpy this morning, but his speaking voice had an unpleasant twang, and I saw Kee stiffen up as if he would certainly decline to be at this man’s beck and call.