Ames glowered, but without another word he led the way from the room and turned toward the staircase. The broad steps, carpeted with red velvet, branched half way up, and turning to the right, Ames conducted us to Sampson Tracy’s rooms. They were in a wing that had been flung out at the back of the house, probably as a later addition to the structure. Entrance was through a private hall, and then into a foyer or ante-room, from which led several doors. “This is the bedroom,” said the Inspector, taking a key from his pocket as he paused before one of the doors. “I thought you had to break in,” Moore said, looking at the unmarred door. “Not exactly,” Farrell told him. “The door was locked and the key inside, in the lock. But they got the garage mechanician up here, and he managed to dislodge the key and then get the door unlocked with his tools.” He opened the door, and we filed in, the Inspector first, then Moore and I, then Ames and Detective March. Farrell closed and locked the door behind us, and it was then that I saw the strange, the grotesque spectacle of Sampson Tracy’s deathbed. The first thing that caught my attention and from which I found it well nigh impossible to detach my vision was the red-feather duster. A full plume of bright red feathers seemed to crown the head on the pillow. The handle of the duster had been thrust down behind and under the head, and only the red plume showed, of such fine, light feathers that a few fronds waved at a step across the room or a movement near the bed. Then I looked at the rest of the strange picture. Sampson Tracy was a large and heavy man. His head was large, and his face was of the conformation sometimes called pear-shaped. He had heavy jaws, pendulous jowls and a large mouth. Clean shaven as to face, his hair was thick and rather long. His eyebrows were bushy, and his half opened eyes of a glassy and yet dull blue. His hair was iron-gray, and round his brow were wreathed some blossoms of blue larkspur. Across his chest, diagonally, was a garland of the same flowers. The blossoms were not tied or twined, they had merely been laid in a row in order to form a vinelike garland. The right hand, bent to rest on his breast, held a crucifix, and in the left hand was, of all things, a small orange. His head lay on one large pillow, and on the other pillow was a folded handkerchief and also two small sweet crackers. And encircling the head and shoulders, framing all these strange details, a long and wide scarf, of soft and filmy scarlet chiffon, a beautiful scarf, from a woman’s point of view, but a peculiar adjunct to a man’s taking-off. I stared at all this, quite forgetting to look at Moore to see how he was taking it. When I did glance up at him, hearing his voice, I saw he had evidently completed his scrutiny of the bed and had turned to Harper Ames. “Why do you think Mr. Tracy was murdered?” Kee asked of the glum-faced one.