signs of struggle to be found in the well-ordered apartment. Beyond a
few rose leaves scattered on the floor, the room was a scene of peace
and quiet luxury. Even the large table which occupied the centre of the
room and near which the master of the house had been standing when
struck gave no token of the tragedy which had been enacted at its side.
That is, not at first glance; for though its large top was covered with
articles of use and ornament, they all stood undisturbed and presumably
in place, as if the shock which had laid their owner low had failed to
be communicated to his belongings.

The contents of the table were various. Only a man of complex tastes and
attainments could have collected and arranged in one small compass
pipes, pens, portraits, weights, measures, Roman lamps, Venetian glass,
rare porcelains, medals, rough metal work, manuscript, a scroll of
music, a pot of growing flowers, and--and--(this seemed oddest of all) a
row of electric buttons, which Mr. Gryce no sooner touched than the
light which had been burning redly in the cage of fretted ironwork
overhead changed in a twinkling to a greenish glare, filling the room
with such ghastly tints that Mr. Gryce sought in haste another button,
and, pressing it, was glad to see a mild white radiance take the place
of the sickly hue which had added its own horror to the already solemn
terrors of the spot.

"Childish tricks for a man of his age and position," ruminated Mr.
Gryce; but after catching another glimpse of the face lying upturned at
his feet he was conscious of a doubt as to whether the owner of that
countenance could have possessed an instinct which was in any wise
childish, so strong and purposeful were his sharply cut features.
Indeed, the face was one to make an impression under any circumstances.
In the present instance, and with such an expression stamped upon it, it