“After the train pulled out, the man behind the storehouse waited some few minutes, till the station was closed, and the men had left, and then he stepped out and picked up something that he saw lying on the ground and had watched from the moment it had caught his eye. It was a revolver, one chamber of which had been discharged. We know now how it came there, and don’t need to go over that part. He skulked back through Gray’s Court, keeping in the shadows when he crossed Canaan Street, and so came again into River Road. A feverish haste had now taken control of him, and when he reached the driveway of the Parlin homestead, the light was still burning in the library--in fact, Mr. Wing was at his desk, just finishing the letter which he had intended to write early in the evening, and which the visit of this unknown man had prevented him from writing.” “There’s not the first thing,” interrupted McManus, who seemed now watchful of every detail as the tale approached its climax, “to show that he ever wrote that letter!” “There’s been no evidence yet produced,” replied Trafford; “but the evidence exists, and I can prove that it was written and the person to whom it was addressed. I can prove too that it never reached that person.” “Go on,” said McManus. “The man felt that what he had to do must be done quickly. Perhaps he knew that if he took time for thought, he wouldn’t have the courage or resolution to do the work. He went to the door where he had rung early in the evening, and rang the same bell. Then he stepped on to the grass east of the doorstep and waited, with the pistol he had found ready in his hand.” “Are you certain on that point?” demanded McManus. Trafford stopped and looked at McManus, as if pondering that question. Finally he answered: “I think so. He probably had a pistol of his own, but I’m confident he used the one he’d found. Everything points to his being a shrewd, keen man, and naturally he would not use his own pistol when he had another in his pocket.” McManus nodded, indicating that Trafford was to take up the story. “Wing came to the door, as before. He did not bring a lamp, but left the doors open behind him. Seeing no one, he stepped out on to the door-stone, when the man in hiding pressed the pistol against his temple and drew the trigger at the same instant. Wing fell in a heap on the step and threshold--his death was instantaneous.” McManus had listened to these last words as if fascinated by the terrible details so briefly stated. When Trafford paused on the last word, he seemed to catch his breath with the movement of one who in the last minute had forgotten everything but the picture before him. “If your tale is true,” he said, breathing deeply, “your description of the man is the man himself--a man of quick movements, strong purpose, assured position, and absolute control of nerves. The man must have been iron--at least while he was doing the job.”