Charley Wright."

For a long time Robert Dunn stood, looking down in silence at that
dead face which was hardly more still, more rigid than his own.

He shivered, for he felt very cold. It was as though the coldness
of the death in whose presence he stood had laid its chilly hand on
him also.

At last he stirred and looked about him with a bewildered air, then
carefully and with a reverent hand, he put back the sackcloth covering.

"So I've found you, Charley," he whispered. "Found you at last."

He replaced the lid, leaving everything as it had been when he
entered the attic, and stood for a time, trying to collect his
thoughts which the shock of this dreadful discovery had so
disordered, and to decide what to do next.

"But, then, that's simple," he thought. "I must go straight to the
police and bring them here. They said they wanted proof; they said
I had nothing to go on but bare suspicion. But that's evidence
enough to hang Deede Dawson--the girl, too, perhaps."

Then he wondered whether it could be that she knew nothing and was
innocent of all part or share in this dreadful deed. But how could
that be possible? How could it be that such a crime committed in
the house in which she lived could remain unknown to her?

On the other hand, when he thought of her clear, candid eyes; when