“I think it would have been natural for him to open the cupboard, though he must have seen the package when he was there early in the evening, and so knew what he was after. However, whether he examined further or not, he did not remain long. The next day he cleaned the chamber of the revolver and filled it, thus leaving only one empty, and during the night found opportunity to throw it over on to the box hedge in the front yard.” Trafford stopped as if he had finished his story, and McManus sat like one in a deep reverie. Suddenly, he looked up and asked: “Where then are the papers which were the cause of this tragedy?” “The man has not dared use them; he keeps them concealed until it is safe to sell them for the hundred thousand dollars which was offered for them.” “My God! man, how do you know these things?” demanded McManus, his face ghastly as that of a week-old corpse. “Do you dare deny one of them?” retorted Trafford. “What do you mean by that?” asked the other. “_That you are the man who murdered Wing!_” CHAPTER XIX The Last of the Papers McManus had sprung to his feet as the accusation came from Trafford’s lips. His left hand was in the side pocket of his sack coat, and as Trafford also rose, there rang out the report of a pistol, fired without removing it from the pocket. The bullet just missed Trafford, cutting the sleeve of his coat. “Throw up your hands, or I’ll shoot,” came from the window, and there stood Trafford’s assistant, with pistol drawn and aimed at McManus. At the very beginning of the story, he had raised the window and had since been listening to the conversation. McManus glanced at Trafford, who was also covering him with a pistol. “I yield,” he said, “to force. You will find it all a hideous mistake before you get through.” “Handcuff him.” Trafford gave the order. “I’ll keep my pistol on him.” McManus turned toward the man who approached from the window. He seemed to have recovered his composure, and a puzzling smile was on his lips. Then, suddenly, the hand came up, without leaving the pocket, which was lifted with it; there was a slight turn of the hand seen through the cloth and the muffled report of the pistol. McManus fell, shot through the heart by his own hand. “A damned bungling piece of work, to let that be done,” said Trafford. “There ’re steps on the stairs. Don’t open the door for a minute.” He rushed into the bedroom, and seizing a tin box that stood on a stand by the bed, dropped it from the window into a dense mass of shrubbery that grew beneath. He was back in the room to answer the first knock at the door. Millbank slept but little that night. The streets were thronged with people, and the story of the tragedy, the discovery of the murderer and his suicide, was repeated and re-repeated, with new details at every repetition. Before midnight it was surprising to know how many people had all along suspected McManus and felt certain that he “was no better than he should be.”