There was very little breeze, but sufficient to send up and down the poplar ranks waves of that mysterious whispering which Klaw and I had previously noted. The moon, though invisible from that point, swam in an absolutely cloudless sky, and the shadow of the house lay black beneath me, its edge tropically sharp. A broad belt of moon-bright grass and gravel succeeded, and this merged into the light-patched gloom of the avenue. On the right of the poplars lay a shrubbery, and beyond that a garden stretching to the east wall. Just to the left, an outbuilding gleamed whitely. Some former occupant had built it for a coach house and it now housed Haufmann’s car. The apartments above were at present untenanted. I cannot say with certainty when I first detected, mingled with the whistling of the branches, something that was not caused by the wind. But ultimately I found myself listening for this other sound. With my eyes fixed straight ahead and peering into the shadows of the poplars I crouched, every nerve at high tension. A slight sound on my left told of a window softly opened. It was Ottley creeping out on to the balcony. He, too, had heard it! Then, with awful suddenness, the inexplicable happened. A short, shrill cry broke the complete silence, succeeding one of those spells of whispering. A shot followed hot upon it--then a second. Somebody fell with a muffled thud upon the drive--and I leapt to the window, threw it widely open, and stepped out on the balcony. “Ottley!” I cried. “Haufmann!” A door banged somewhere and I heard Haufmann’s muffled voice: “Downstairs! Come down!” I ran across the room, out on to the landing, and down into the hall. Haufmann was unfastening the bolts. His injured arm was still stiff, and I hastened to assist him. “My God!” he cried, turning a pale face toward me. “It’s Ottley gone! Did you see anything?” “No! Did you?” “Curse it! No! I had just slipped away from the window to get my repeater! You heard the voice?” “Clearly!” The door was thrown open and we ran out into the drive. There was no sign of Ottley, and we stood for a moment, undecided how we should act. Then, just inside the shadow belt we found the detective lying. Thinking him dead, we raised and dragged him back to the house. Having refastened the door, we laid him on a sofa in the morning room. His face was deathly and blood flowed from a terrible wound on his skull. Strangest of all, though, he had a gaping hole just above the right wrist. The skin about it was discoloured as if with burning. Neither of us could detect any sign of life, and we stood, two frankly frightened men, looking at each other over the body. “It’s got to be done!” said Haufmann, slowly. “One of us has to stay here and do what he can for him, and one has to go for a doctor! There’s no telephone!” “Where’s the nearest doctor?” I asked. “There’s one at the corner of the first road on the right.” “I’ll go!” I said.