"Yes."

I did not look at him, nor he at me. We climbed the stairs and
entered the room, where, according to Elinor's story, Arthur Wells
had killed himself. It was a dressing-room, as Miss Jeremy had
described. A wardrobe, a table with books and magazines in
disorder, two chairs, and a couch, constituted the furnishings.
Beyond was a bathroom. On a chair by a window the dead mans's
evening clothes were neatly laid out, his shoes beneath. His top
hat and folded gloves were on the table.

Arthur Wells lay on the couch. A sheet had been drawn over the
body, and I did not disturb it. It gave the impression of unusual
length that is always found, I think, in the dead, and a breath
of air from an open window, by stirring the sheet, gave a false
appearance of life beneath.

The house was absolutely still.

When I glanced at Sperry he was staring at the ceiling, and I
followed his eyes, but there was no mark on it. Sperry made a
little gesture.

"It's queer," he muttered. "It's--"

"The detective and I put him there. He was here." He showed a
place on the floor midway of the room.

"Where was his head lying?" I asked, cautiously.