stood facing them; every inch of available space upon it was crowded
with bottles, decanters and glasses.

"The gentleman was not averse to an occasional nip, at any rate," said
Pendleton. "And his taste was rather educated, too," examining the
sideboard's contents carefully. "The best was none too good for him."

Beyond this again was a bedroom. The bed was a huge Flemish affair,
and also elaborately carved; over it was a spreading Genoese canopy,
which through lack of care had grown dusty and tattered. Rich old rugs
were spread upon the neglected floor; a beautiful Louis Quinze table
had its top covered with discolored rings made by the bottoms of
glasses, and the lighted ends of cigars had burned spots on it.

"The bed of a prince and the floor coverings of a duke," said
Pendleton with indignation. "And used much as a coal heaver would use
them. Now, this table is really a scandal. If its owner has been
murdered, I don't wonder at it. Some outraged lover of such things has
probably taken the law into his own hands."

But Ashton-Kirk was paying little attention to the things that
appalled Pendleton.

"Look," said he.

He indicated the walls. Here and there the plaster was broken as
though some fastened object had been violently torn away. At one place
an empty picture frame, its glass smashed, hung askew from a hook. As
Pendleton caught sight of other empty frames littered about the room,
the glass of each broken, their pictures torn out, he exclaimed in