Straightway she mounted to a chair, took the fruit jars from the shelf where they had been temporarily placed, used a dish cloth in improvising a sling which would carry the full ten of them, and started for the third floor. At some time or another there had been a back stairs to the Gilmore house, but this had been closed off in making some modernizing alterations, so that Mrs. Bogart perforce had to wend her way to the reception hall and up the wide front stairway--hoping that Bates would not see her and order her back to her own domain. Bates, however, did not appear to interrupt her little pilgrimage of morbid curiosity. She reached the second floor and, having to pass the room wherein Helen Gilmore had been shot to death, paused for a moment outside the narrowly open door, as she sought in vain to get anything like a good look inside. And, while she could not see much, her ears certainly got her a thrill, for it was at this moment that Sergeant Tish had said: "Yep, this clinches it, gents. These are Haskins' finger prints on the window. Good thing I brought this card along, huh? Haskins is wanted now for two murders. The job now is--find Haskins." Mrs. Bogart's eyes bulged, and the empty fruit jars came perilously near crashing to the floor. Two murders! What did they mean? Who else had been murdered, and who was Haskins? Up to the moment of her last talk with Bates about the tragedy all suspicion had been leveled at Sarbella. She tarried a moment, but there was nothing of the conversation on the other side of the door to enlighten her; not wishing to run the risk of being caught at eavesdropping, she moved on down the hall toward the stairs, the top of the house, and the seldom-used storeroom. The entrance to the third floor stairway was inclosed, and it was reached by means of a door. Mrs. Bogart's hand went out to the knob; her strong fingers closed about it with a muscular grip, and then a startled gasp sounded on her lips, and a chill swept over her body. The door had yielded a bare inch when she felt a retarding pressure, holding it shut against her. Some one was on the other side! "Mebbe--mebbe it's just stuck a little," she muttered in a gulping whisper. "Mebbe I imagined it." She braced her body, took a fresh and determined grip on the knob, and tried it again. Under exertion of this strong pull the door, still in the grasp of that opposing, unseen force, came toward her a bare inch or so, revealing to her staring eyes, indistinct in the shadows of the inclosed stairs, a bleary, unshaven face--a face hideously haggard, terrifying.