He looked at the cord that had been around his wrists. It was cut through. Nothing could be clearer than that smooth mark of a sharp knife. The detective looked at the knife in Harry’s dead hand. “That’s it!” he said, softly. “The poor fellow tried to save me, and he came pretty near doing it.” He tried to take the knife from Harry’s hand, but the stiffened fingers held it tight. His own knife was in his pocket, and with that he cut the cord around his ankles. Then he got up. His head still swam, and he was weak, but his strength came back rapidly. Going to the wall, he found the gas jet. The cock had been turned square off. “Harry did it,” he whispered. “Poor fellow! I remember how he couldn’t stand the idea of my being murdered. His coming in and leaving the door open, ventilated the place, and so I didn’t die of suffocation. Poor chap! he meant well. I wonder how he came to be shot?” Shot he was, as the detective could see from the wound in the young man’s breast. Patsy stood still for a full minute. “Hang me!” he exclaimed, “if it doesn’t seem as wonderful as if I was dead!” He felt for his revolver. One had been taken away from him, but he had the other, and, with this in his hand, he went upstairs. The house was very still. In the kitchen he found overturned chairs and other signs of disorder. “There was a ruction of some kind,” he concluded. He wasn’t sure just what he ought to do, and decided that before he tried to form a plan he would explore the house. Nothing attracted his attention in the rooms of the ground floor, and it was the same on the next floor. They were ordinary rooms, furnished cheaply. The detective looked into bureau drawers, not because he was expecting to find anything, but to see if there was any evidence that the house was regularly occupied. There was none. All the drawers were empty. Opening a door, he found himself at the foot of the stairs to the attic. “Might as well take it all in,” he thought, and he started up. The third step was loose, and came up when he put his foot on it. At once he pulled the board away. He saw something that made his eyes bulge. A box had been made beneath the step, and, lying in it, were two packets of papers done up in red ribbon, and a great quantity of money in big bills. He took out and counted twenty one-thousand-dollar bills, and twenty thousand more dollars in bills of five and one hundred. “Whew!” he whistled, sitting down and looking at his find. A sound startled him. It came from above. A faint, weak voice—a woman’s, apparently. It seemed to be calling for help. Patsy stuffed the money in his pockets, and bounded up the attic stairs. Under the unfinished loft on a couch of blankets he saw a young woman lying. She was tied to the place so that she could turn over only with difficulty. “Good gracious!” he cried, “who are you? What does this mean? Have you been hurt?”