“That’s right. Been here a matter of five years now. I heard tell somewhere that she was expecting her sister, and this lady come yesterday. A Mrs. Something, I think she is. The wife’d know. She’s a rare one for picking up news, she is.” The Sergeant was examining the wound that was hidden under the thick, fair hair. “It’s a bullet-wound, all right, and fired at fairly close range. Any sign of a weapon anywhere?” But there was no trace of the weapon by which the unfortunate woman had met her death. The little room seemed unnaturally tidy and normal for the scene of so grim a tragedy; an ordinary man’s room, giving no sign of any struggle; the only feminine note in it being the still figure on the ground and a brocade bag which, with the ominous, suggestive stain on the blotter, supplied the only touch of colour on the dark wood of the writing-table. The Sergeant opened the bag. A small powder-puff, a cigarette-case and holder, a stick of lip-salve, a tiny gold purse with a few shillings in it, and a lace handkerchief, were all it contained. The handkerchief bore an embroidered monogram in the corner. “R. D.” or “D. R.” were the letters, but, as Gunnet was unable to remember the name of Miss Allen’s guest, this was of little use for purposes of identification. The contents of the bag were costly and the woman’s clothes in keeping with them. She was expensively dressed in a long fur coat which fell open as they moved her and revealed a fawn-coloured georgette dress, heavily trimmed with sequins, underneath. As well as the rings on her fingers she wore a long chain of rhinestones and a gold watch-bracelet set with diamonds. Fine silk stockings and brown glace beaded shoes with very high heels covered her feet. To the soles of the shoes dried earth was clinging and a dead leaf was adhering to one of the heels. “Doesn’t look much like robbery,” remarked Gunnet. “She came here of her own accord, too, I should say. There is no sign of any struggle. Her clothes are as tidy as when she left home.” The Sergeant stood looking down at the calm face upturned to his. “She was a beauty, poor thing, and no mistake,” he added gently. “It must have been sudden, the end. She never knew what was coming to her. Look at her face.” It was true. Except for the smear of dried blood down one side of the cheek, and its ghastly pallor, there was nothing to suggest that she was not quietly sleeping. The still lips even held a faint smile and it was evident that death had come swiftly and mercifully. “It looks as if the murderer must have been some one known to her, some one she would have no cause to fear,” went on the Sergeant. “Either that or she thought she was alone in the house and he came on her unawares from behind. That young chap in there,” he continued, indicating the direction of the passage with a jerk of his head. “He knows Miss Allen, doesn’t he? I seem to remember him and her at the Point to Point together.”