Drew stepped upon heavy rugs and crossed the chamber to a chair. He turned this, removed his hat, and sat down with his legs thrust outward. His eyes roamed the place in slow calculation. Dark, old masters, which were probably good in their day, stared down at him. A little globe, petticoated in soft silk, gave a yellow light to the walls and floor. It brought out Nichols' features in sharp, actinic shadows. Drew continued his searching glance. A bed, with tossed coverlet and sheets, loomed from an inner room. A table, upon which was an officer's cap and gloves, stood between two doors that were closed. One of these doors, Drew concluded, was the bathroom entrance, the other might have been a closet. His eyes fastened finally upon a telephone upon a dark-wood stand. He lifted his chin. "Montgomery Stockbridge is dead!" he snapped, darting at Harry Nichols the keen scrutiny of a man salvoing a surprise. Nichols glanced at the 'phone. "I know that!" he said with rising color. "I'm aware of that fact, Mr. Drew." "When did you first learn of it?" "See here! I have your card. I know who you are. I was almost expecting you, or another detective. But,"--Nichols' voice raised to a determined key--"but, sir, I am not talking to anybody about what you just told me. How do I know who you represent--the police or the law or the----" "You have talked with Miss Stockbridge. She told you in the drug-store that I was in the house. She has told you that I was called in by her father. She undoubtedly 'phoned you, after she recovered from her faint. You have the details of the dastardly murder--if ever there was one! I represent her. I represent her friends. I have no other interest in this case!" Harry Nichols drew out the card and studied it. He glanced at Delaney. "Who is this man?" he asked. "My right bower. He's with me--and you and Miss Loris. We're together in this. The police now have the case. What I want is to protect you and her from the police. What will they do when they learn from the servants--which they will--that Miss Stockbridge had _this_ gun in her hand when she entered the library?" Drew extended his palm. In the hollow of it lay the little ivory-handled revolver which he had taken from Loris. "What are they going to do when they learn about this?" he asked with shrewd reasoning. "Particularly, Mr. Nichols, when the caliber of this revolver is probably the same caliber of the bullet which entered, and is still in, Mr. Stockbridge's brain." The gray eyes narrowed. The lips compressed until they were white. They seemed drawn with pain. A faint hiss of surprise sounded in the room. Harry Nichols turned and strode to an ornate mantel-piece upon which was a single cabinet photo. He lifted it impulsively. He stared at the picture of Loris Stockbridge as if in it lay inspiration, and resolve. He set the photo down and wheeled upon Drew. His eyes blazed.