Parks must have been on the front steps looking for me, for he came running down them almost before the car had stopped. I caught a glimpse of his face under the street lights, as I thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and it fairly startled me. "Is it you, Mr. Lester?" he gasped. "Good God, but I'm glad you're here--" I caught him by the arm. "Steady, man," I said. "Don't let yourself go to pieces. Now--what has happened?" He seemed to take a sort of desperate grip of himself. "I'll show you, sir," he said, and ran up the steps, along the hall, to the door of the ante-room where we had found the Frenchman's body. "In there, sir!" he sobbed. "In there!" and clung to the wall as I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was ablaze with light, and for an instant my eyes were so dazzled that I could distinguish nothing. Dimly I saw Godfrey spring forward and drop to his knees. Then my eyes cleared, and I saw, on the very spot where d'Aurelle had died, another body--or was it the same, brought back that the tragedy of the afternoon might, in some mysterious way, be re-enacted? I remember bending over and peering into the face-- It was the face of Philip Vantine. A minute must have passed as I stood there dazed and shaken. I was conscious, in a way, that Godfrey was examining him. Then I heard his voice. "He's dead," he said. Then there was an instant's silence. "Lester, look here!" cried Godfrey's voice, sharp, insistent. "For God's sake, look here!" Godfrey was kneeling there holding something toward me. "Look here!" he cried again. It was the dead man's hand he was holding; the right hand; a swollen and discoloured hand. And on the back of it, just above the knuckles, were two tiny wounds, from which a few drops of blood had trickled. And as I stared at this ghastly sight, scarce able to believe my eyes, I heard a choking voice behind me, saying over and over again: "It was that woman done it! It was that woman done it! Damn her! It was that woman done it!" CHAPTER V GRADY TAKES A HAND I have no very clear remembrance of what happened after that. The shock was so great that I had just strength enough to totter to a chair and drop into it, and sit there staring vaguely at that dark splotch on the carpet. I told myself that I was the victim of a dreadful nightmare; that all this was the result of over-wrought nerves and that I should wake presently. No doubt I had been working too hard. I needed a vacation--well, I would take it.... And all the time I knew that it was not a nightmare, but grim reality; that Philip Vantine was dead--killed by a woman. Who had told me that? And then I remembered the sobbing voice....