“You’re very honest, Mr. Trask.” “Yes, because I want the truth. Can you get it?” “I think so.” “You still eliminate suicide?” “I can’t see how I can think it, with no weapon. You say that death was instantaneous—?” “Yes; the doctors agree that it was. Positively he had no chance to hide or dispose of the instrument of death.” “And why should he? Suicides never make their death seem a murder, though often a murderer tries to simulate a suicide.” “Yet that wasn’t done in this case, or the murderer would have left the weapon.” “That may be the very point he neglected. Now, how did the murderer get out? Get busy, Fibs.” For nearly half an hour, the three men searched the room. Had there been any secret exit, or any concealed passage, it must have been found. Fleming Stone’s knowledge of architecture would not let him overlook any thing of the sort, and Fibsy’s alert eyes and quick wits would have found anything out of the ordinary. “No way out,” Stone concluded, finally; “and no way of locking a door or a window after departure from the room. Looks as if the murder theory was as untenable as the other. No chance of a natural death?” “With a round hole in his jugular vein? No, sir. The doctors here won’t stand for that. Try again.” “I shall. I don’t know when I’ve had such a baffling, intriguing case, as this appears to be at first sight. It may resolve itself into a simple problem, but I can’t think so now. Even if it were the work of your Miss Austin—how did she get in and out?” “Oh, she got in, all right. Waring let her in, at the French window. Probably that’s when he locked his door. But—say she killed him—how did she get out and lock the room behind her?” “She couldn’t. The window locks are bolts, and could not be shot from outside. For the moment I see no explanation. It is blank, utter mystery. When can I see Miss Austin?” “Too late tonight, tomorrow morning will have to do. But she won’t run away. The police won’t let her.” “Yet they can’t hold her.” “They are doing so. They claim she was the last one to see the victim alive—” “Does she admit that?” “Not she! She admits nothing. You’ll get nothing out of that little Sphinx!” “All right, then, Mr. Trask, if you’ve finished your tale, suppose you leave me here to ruminate over this thing, and I’ll go up to my room when I wish.” Trask went off to bed, and Stone and his young assistant sat and looked at each other. “Up against it, F. Stone?” “I certainly am, Fibs. And yet, the thing is so absolutely impossible that there must be a solution within easy reach. It can’t be suicide, with the weapon gone, and it can’t be murder with the room locked up. Now, as it must be either suicide or murder, then it follows, that either the weapon isn’t gone, or the room isn’t locked up.” “Wasn’t, you mean.” “Yes, wasn’t. But I don’t yet think that any one disturbed the conditions purposely. For why would the secretary take away the weapon to make it seem a suicide—”