“I was at the garage with Mr. Allen, and two chauffeurs—the Wheelers’ man and Mr. Appleby’s man. Together, and with the help of a gardener or two, we put the fire out. Then Mr. Allen said: ‘Let’s go to the house and tell them there’s no danger. They may be worried.’ Mr. Allen started off and I followed. He preceded me into the den——” “Then you tell what you saw there, Mr. Allen.” “I saw, first of all,” began Jeffrey, “the figure of Mr. Appleby sitting in a chair, near the middle of the room. His head hung forward limply, and his whole attitude was unnatural. The thought flashed through my mind that he had had a stroke of some sort, and I went to him—and I saw he was dead.” “You knew that at once?” “I judged so, from the look on his face and the helpless attitude. Then I felt for his heart and found it was still.” “You a doctor?” “No; but I’ve had enough experience to know when a man is dead.” “All right. What was Mr. Wheeler doing?” “Nothing. He stood on the other side of the room, gazing at his old friend.” “And Miss Wheeler?” “She, too, was looking at the scene. She stood in the bay window.” “I see. Now, Mr. Keefe, I believe you followed close on Mr. Allen’s heels. Did you see the place—much as he has described it?” “Yes;” Keefe looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think I can corroborate every word of his description.” “All right. Now, Miss Lane, where were you?” “I was at the fire. I followed the two men in, and I saw the same situation they have told you of.” Genevieve’s quiet, composed air was a relief after the somewhat excited utterances of the others. “What did you do?” “I am accustomed to wait on Mr. Appleby, and it seemed quite within my province that I should telephone for help for him. I called the doctor—and then I called the police station.” “You don’t think you took a great deal on yourself?” Genevieve stared at him. “I do not think so. I only think that I did my duty as I saw it, and in similar circumstances I should do the same again.” At this point the other detective was heard from. “I would like to ask,” Hallen said, “what Mrs. Wheeler meant by crying out that it was the work of a ‘phantom burglar’?” “Not burglar—bugler,” said Mrs. Wheeler, suddenly alert. “Bugler!” Hallen stared. “Please explain, ma’am.” “There is a tradition in my family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, in a slow, sad voice, “that when a member of the family is about to die, a phantom bugler makes an appearance and sounds ‘taps’ on his bugle. This phenomenon occurred last night.” “Oh, no! Spooks! But Mr. Appleby is not a member of your family.” “No; but he was under our roof. And so I know the warning was meant for him.” “Well, well, we can’t waste time on such rubbish,” interposed Burdon, “the bugle call had nothing to do with the case.” “How do you explain it, then?” asked Mrs. Wheeler. “We all heard it, and there’s no bugler about here.”