Mrs. Peyton started to follow, but the secretary bade her go back lest she take cold. He reached the French window only to find it locked on the inside. He could not see in through its curtained panes, and impulsively he raised his foot and kicked through the glass at a point high enough to allow of his putting in a hand and turning back the latch. He went into the room, and after the briefest glance at the man by the desk he went on and unbolted the door to the hall. Helen had joined her mother and Ito, and the three stood cowering on the threshold. “He is dead,” Gordon Lockwood said, in a calm, unemotional way. “But not by a stroke—he has killed himself.” “How do you know?” Mrs. Peyton cried, her eyes staring and her face white. “Go away, Helen,” Lockwood said; “go back into the living-room, and stay away.” And willingly the girl obeyed. “Come in, Mrs. Peyton,” Lockwood went on. “You must see him, though it will shock you. See, the flow of blood is dreadful. He stabbed or shot himself.” Conquering her aversion to the sight, Mrs. Peyton, from a sense of duty, drew nearer, and as Lockwood had said, the condition of the body was terrible indeed. Wounded, apparently in the side of the head, Waring had fallen forward in such a way that the actual wound was concealed, but the fact was only too apparent that he had bled to death. The blotter on the desk and many of the furnishings were crimsoned and there was a large and dark stain on the rug. “He is positively dead,” said Lockwood, in cool, even tone, “so I advise that we do not touch the body but send at once for Doctor Greenfield. He will know best what to do.” “Oh, you cold-blooded wretch!” Mrs. Peyton burst forth, uncontrollably. “Have you no feelings whatever? You stand there like a wooden image, when the best man in the world lies dead before you! And you, Ito!” She turned on the awe-struck butler. “You’re another of those impassive, unnatural creatures! Oh, I hate you both!” The housekeeper ran from the room, and was soon closeted with her daughter, who, at least showed agitation and grief at the tragedy that had occurred. The two she had called impassive, stood regarding one another. “Who did it, Master?” inquired the Japanese, calmly. “Who did it!” Lockwood stared at him. “Why, he did it himself, Ito.” Otherwise immovable, the Oriental shook his head in dissension, but Lockwood was already at the telephone, and heeded him not. Doctor Greenfield consented to come over at once, and Lockwood going to the living room, advised the Peytons to have breakfast, as there was a terrible ordeal ahead of them. “I’ll have some coffee with you, if I may,” he went on. “Brace up, Helen, it’s pretty awful for you, but you must try to be a brave girl.” A grateful glance thanked him for the kindness, and Lockwood returned quickly to the study. “What are you doing?” he said sternly, as he saw Ito bending over the dead man.