"So it would appear," answered the doctor, deliberately indulging in a deceiving play on words. With suspicion pointing toward Sarbella, it was perhaps best that the man not know too much--just yet. If the artist were guilty, there might be something gained by keeping him in ignorance that the suicide sham had fooled no one. Sarbella moved on up the stairs; Doctor Bushnell would have given a pretty penny to have had a good look at his face, wondering if he might not see there a look of relieved suspense. Kirklan Gilmore's hands fidgeted restlessly in his pockets. "You say that you want to talk with me privately?" "Yes, suppose we go into the den." "That isn't necessary now, is it? Sarbella has accommodatingly gone upstairs to his room." "The den, if you don't mind," insisted Doctor Bushnell. "I'd prefer taking no chances of being overheard." Gilmore's head jerked up. "I can't understand the reason for all this secrecy," he muttered; nevertheless he led the way across the hall to the room known as the den. It had in former days been his father's favorite room. The physician followed and gently closed the door. "Sit down, Kirklan," he murmured. "I dislike to add to your strain, but there is something that I must tell you. Your wife did not kill herself." The novelist winced. "You mean----" "Kirklan, it's murder." Gilmore staggered and dropped limply into one of the big leather chairs, face buried in his hands. "But, Doctor Bushnell, it--it can't be that. There--there was the gun beside her. That is proof----" "Only proof of an effort to make murder appear suicide," broke in the physician. "The nature of the wound is such as to preclude any reasonable thought of self-infliction." "Murder?" Gilmore whispered dully. "Bates was right, after all, then? I can't understand it. Who would have killed her?" "Ah, that is what remains in front of us. I am in a very peculiar position, Kirklan. I am your family physician, but at the same time I am a deputy coroner; I accepted the appointment only last month. It is my official duty to do everything in my power that the law may take its proper course. I don't suppose you know whom the gun belongs to?" "I do not know." "It is a heavy gun, Kirklan; not at all the sort of weapon that would belong to a woman, or that a woman would use if it were left to her own choice. I have not examined it; I have not so much as touched it. I was afraid that I might destroy possible finger prints; I thought it best to wait." "Wound or no wound," muttered Gilmore, "I can't believe that it was murder. Why would any one have killed her?" "Kirklan, I am going to put a frank question. How well do you know this guest of yours, the man Sarbella?" "Great Lord, doctor, you don't think that he----" "I'm afraid I don't think anything yet. I'm just stabbing around in the dark. Was Sarbella previously acquainted with your wife?" "See here, I don't want any insinuations of that sort."