exerted a fascination which disturbed the current of the detective's
thoughts whenever by any chance he allowed it to get between him and his
duty. To attribute folly to a man with such a mouth and such a chin was
to own one's self a poor judge of human nature. Therefore, the lamp
overhead, with its electric connection and changing slides, had a
meaning which at present could be sought for only in the evidences of
scientific research observable in the books and apparatus everywhere
surrounding him.

Letting the white light burn on, Mr. Gryce, by a characteristic effort,
shifted his attention to the walls, covered, as I have said, with
tapestries and curios. There was nothing on them calculated to aid him
in his research into the secret of this crime, unless--yes, there _was_
something, a bent-down nail, wrenched from its place, the nail on which
the cross had hung which now lay upon the dead man's heart. The cord by
which it had been suspended still clung to the cross and mingled its red
threads with that other scarlet thread which had gone to meet it from
the victim's wounded breast. Who had torn down that cross? Not the
victim himself. With such a wound, any such movement would have been
impossible. Besides, the nail and the empty place on the wall were as
far removed from where he lay as was possible in the somewhat
circumscribed area of this circular apartment. Another's hand, then, had
pulled down this symbol of peace and pardon, and placed it where the
dying man's fleeting breath would play across it, a peculiar exhibition
of religious hope or mad remorse, to the significance of which Mr. Gryce
could not devote more than a passing thought, so golden were the moments
in which he found himself alone upon this scene of crime.

Behind the table and half-way up the wall was a picture, the only large
picture in the room. It was the portrait of a young girl of an extremely