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Rh could a-got out without one of us knowin' it. If a murder's been committed the murderer's still in the house somewhere."

The burly sergeant nodded his satisfaction.

"Well, if he's here, we'll get him," he declared. As an after-thought: "Got the house surrounded?"

"I've thrown a cordon around the whole block," replied O'Shane. "A mouse couldn't get through it without getting its neck broke."

"Good." Strange drew his revolver, which he had returned to his pocket after entering the room, and tried the handle of the closet door. "Now, men, before we go any farther, let's get this closet open. It may contain a secret exit, for all we know. Take a chair and burst it in, one of you."

"Wait, my friend, I know an easier way," said Peret.

He drew a jimmy from his inside coat pocket, inserted the flattened end in the crack between the door and the jamb, and bore down on the handle. Yielding to the powerful leverage, the door creaked, splintered around the lock and flew open.

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Peret, leaping back.

The body of a dead man rolled out on the floor!

IOLENT death means nothing to the average police official; he comes in almost daily contact with the most brutal and horrible form of it.

Therefore, while the utter unexpectedness of the corpse's arrival in their midst had a very noticeable effect on the excitable French sleuth, and more especially on Deweese, with his wracked nerves, the others, though momentarily startled, seemed to consider it all in the day’s work.

Strange flashed a brief glance at Peret, and then finding him glaring blankly at the cadaver, shifted his gaze to encompass the gruesome object of the Frenchman's regard.

The dead man, like Peret, it was easy to see, was—or, rather had been—a native of France. The cast of his features was unmistakable. He was of medium height and build, was slightly bald, and his upper lip was adorned with a small, black, tightly-waxed mustache. The dagger that was buried to the hilt in his breast gave silent though ample testimony to the manner in which he had met his death.

His clothing was badly torn, and there was other evidence to show that he had put up a desperate fight with his murderer before the fatal blow was struck. In his present state he made a ghastly spectacle, for his face was badly discolored and smeared over with dried blood, and his eyes, one of which was nearly torn from its socket, were wide open and fixed on the ceiling in a glassy stare.

"Who is he?" asked O’Shane, after a brief silence.

"Adolphe," replied Peret, bending over the body. "Berjet's valet."

"You knew him," Strange stated rather than questioned.

"Yes, yes," said Peret. "I have seen him. He was le bon valet. See, sergeant, his limbs are cold and stiff. He was assassinated at least two hours before his master was. Mon dieu! What does it all mean?"

He rose to his feet, ran his fingers through his chairhair [sic] in a distracted manner and stared at the corpse as if he hoped to find an answer to the baffling mystery in the glassy eyes.

"Well, for one thing, it means that we got to get busy," was Strange's energetic response.

Whereupon O'Shane began to explore the closet. Strange, however, seemed to be in no hurry to follow the example set by his subordinate. He made several entries in his notebook, leisurely scratched his ear and looked at Peret from the corner of his eye. Though he would have died rather