“It locks itself, with a snap catch. Then—ah, here is the strange thing! Then he went back, sat at his desk, and in a moment he fell over and the blood spurted out.” “Didn’t he stab himself?” Fibsy asked. “I don’t know. He didn’t seem to do anything but scratch his ear, and over he fell! Such a sight! I was afraid, and I ran away—fast.” “All very well,” said Stone, “but what became of the weapon?” “I know,” Fibsy almost screamed, in his excitement. “Oh, F. Stone—I know!” “Well, tell us, Terence—but steady, now, my boy. Don’t get too excited.” “No, sir,” and the lad grew suddenly quiet. “But I know. Wait just a minute, sir. Where are the photographs of the house that the detectives took the day after?” “I’ll get them,” Lockwood said, and left the room. He returned, and Fibsy found a magnifying glass and looked carefully at certain pictures. “It proves,” he said, solemnly. “F. Stone, you have solved your greatest case!” It was characteristic of the boy, that although the solution was his own, his deference to Stone was sincere and un-self-conscious. “Please,” he said, “I don’t know Latin, but you will find the explanation of Doctor Waring’s death on that red stained page. He was reading Martial, as we know, and—” he pointed to the Epigram on the page in question, “as he read that, he found a way out.” The grave statement was impressive, and Stone took the book. “Shall I translate, or read the Latin aloud?” he asked the others. “Wait a minute, I’ll get a Martial in English,” Lockwood said, out of consideration for Trask’s possible ignorance of the dead language. “What number is the Epigram?” he asked, returning. Stone told him, and Lockwood found the place, and passed the English version to Stone. Aloud, the detective read this: TRANSLATION Book IV, Epigram 18 On a youth killed by the fall of a piece of ice. Just where the gate near the portico of Agrippa is always dripping with water, and the slippery pavement is wet with constant showers, a mass of water, congealed by winter’s cold, fell upon the neck of a youth who was entering the damp temple, and, when it had inflicted a cruel death on the unfortunate boy, the weapon melted in the warm wound it had made. What cruelties does not Fortune permit? Or where is not death to be found, if you, the waters, turn cut-throats. “And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly, “he went to that window back by the big globe and got one—and here’s the proof! Look through the glass, F. S.” Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a moment.