No one responded to that musing question. Withdrawn unobtrusively into one corner, Wiggly had again taken the lump of tallow from his pocket and was meditatively rubbing his fingers over it. Suddenly his attention centered upon those black specks that he had taken for granted were dirt, caused, perhaps, by a soiled shoe sole pressing down on it, as it had lain upon the floor of the room upstairs; he saw now that those dark, almost pin-point discolorations were imbedded into the substance. This, however, increased rather than solved the puzzle. "The district attorney has come, hasn't he?" asked Doctor Bushnell. "I took it for granted that it was his car I saw at the side of the driveway, as we came up." Kirklan Gilmore nodded absently. "Yes," he said, "a young fellow--the assistant district attorney, I believe. Lasker, I think his name is. He's upstairs looking around with that detective fellow, Sergeant Fish." "Tish," corrected the physician. "Quite a game sort, Tish; it was he who shot Haskins." Again Gilmore nodded. "So he told me," he said. "I think I'll go upstairs," added the physician. "It won't be long now until the men who are to serve on the jury arrive." He glanced at Wiggly with a patronizing sort of smile. "Are you coming up with me to look for more--more hairpins, young man?" The newspaper man smiled grimly. "I'll go up with you," he said, "but it's not hairpins that I'm mainly interested in right now; it's this confounded piece of tallow." He turned his eyes toward the novelist and thought he saw a sudden tightening of Gilmore's muscles, a suppressed start. He was not so sure about it. "Tell me, Mr. Gilmore, were candles used frequently in the house here?" Gilmore did not reply for a moment. "Candles?" he murmured. "Why, my dear sir, what a peculiar question. I don't believe I understand." Doctor Bushnell, moving toward the stairway, paused with a brief, discounting laugh. "Our enthusiastic newspaper friend, Kirklan," he explained, "thinks we haven't begun to get at the bottom of things. He's found a few pieces of tallow candle on the floor of the room upstairs; he's trying to attach some importance to it--just because he doesn't hit upon a ready explanation to it, I suppose. I'm afraid we've humored him a little too much, in gratitude for the first assistance that he gave us in identifying your wife." Gilmore was frowning slightly. "And I'm afraid that I can't help him explain his little mystery, doctor," he said. "So far as I can recall, there aren't any candlesticks in Helen's room; nor in my room, which is adjoining. Still"--he paused for a moment--"it does occur to me, gentlemen, that the third floor has never been wired for electricity; the storeroom is so seldom visited. If Haskins had wanted to have a light up there, a candle would have afforded about the only possible illumination for him."