"Certainly not," said Gilmore. "Why do you stand there arguing about it? Go call the doctor, can't you? Tell Doctor Bushnell to come quickly." Yet Bates delayed another moment to press his theory. "Do you remember the scream, sir?" he whispered. "There was terror in it. Not at all the kind of a scream, Mr. Kirklan, that one would give unless faced with a terrible danger. And people do not scream when they are about to shoot themselves." Gilmore groaned and tossed his hands wildly. "Stop it!" he cried hoarsely. "Get out! Do what I tell you--call the doctor. You're a butler, not a policeman. In Heaven's name, Bates, get a move on you." As the butler shambled into the hall, almost ludicrous in his haste, he narrowly escaped a collision with Victor Sarbella, who appeared from out of the darkness, a dressing gown thrown over his pajamas. "What's happened?" demanded the guest of Greenacres. "I thought I heard a shot." His voice was strained, excited; there could be considered nothing strange in that, for there was certainly the promise of sinister, tragic things when the after-midnight stillness of a peaceable country house is shattered by the startling voice of exploding gunpowder. "The younger Mrs. Gilmore is dead, shot--murdered!" panted Bates, and dashed on past so headlong that it seemed he would surely tumble down the steps. A smothered exclamation broke through Sarbella's lips, and for a brief moment he did not move, as he stared toward the half-open door in front of him. His face was set into tense lines. From within he heard the sound of a groan, and, stepping forward, he saw Kirklan Gilmore, as his body sagged in a chair, twisting his hands with such intensity that it seemed he must snap the finger joints. And then the artist saw the dead woman on the chaise longue. "Great Lord, Kirklan----" The novelist turned, flinging out an accusing finger in a wild gesture. "You did this!" he screamed. "You----" Sarbella's eyes narrowed, his face hardened. "Be careful what you say, Gilmore," he broke in. "It is no light thing to accuse a man of murder." "I say you did it! Helen has killed herself, and you--you drove her to it--you drove her to her death." Sarbella was naturally bewildered. "Your butler says your wife has been murdered; then you accuse me of it, and now you switch everything around by telling me that she has killed herself. I don't know what it all means. What _has_ happened?" "Bates is an old fool," muttered Gilmore. "Of course she has killed herself. You see--there is the gun on the floor, where it dropped from her fingers. Any one can see that it was suicide." One might have thought that a look of relief came into the face of the artist; he nodded his head slowly in agreement. "Yes, that's the way it appears; but if that is the case, why is it that your butler says----"