The door was open, and there was a bright glare of gas within.

It shone upon the table, where a rich repast lay untasted. It illumined
the gaudy furnishings of the room and the costly pictures upon the
walls.

It shone, too, upon a beautiful face, rigid and perfectly white, except
for a horrible stain of black and red upon the temple.

The face was that of a woman of twenty-five years. She had very abundant
hair of a light corn color, which clustered in little curls around her
forehead, and was gathered behind in a great mass of plaited braids.

She reclined in a large easy-chair, in a natural attitude, but the
pallid face, the fixed and glassy eyes, and the grim wound upon the
temple announced, in unmistakable terms, the presence of death.

Nick drew a long breath and set his lips together firmly. He had felt
that something was wrong in that house. The waiter who had run across
the sidewalk and got into that carriage had borne a guilty secret with
him, as the detective's experienced eye had instantly perceived.

But this was a good deal worse than Nick had expected. He had looked for
a robbery, or, perhaps, a secret and bloody quarrel between two of the
waiters, but not for a murder such as this.

One glance at the woman showed her to be elegant in dress and of a
refined appearance.

She could have had nothing in common with the missing Corbut, unless,