about the cabin. Mrs. Johns came to the door opposite, and asked to
have tea sent down to the stewardess. I called the request up the
companionway, unwilling to leave the cabin for a moment. When I came
back, Jones was standing at the door of Vail's cabin, looking in. His
face was pale.

"Look there!" he said hoarsely. "Look at the bell. He must have
tried to push the button!"

I stared in. Williams had put the cabin to rights, as nearly as
he could. The soaked mattress was gone, and a clean linen sheet
was spread over the bunk. Poor Vail's clothing, as he had taken it
off the night before, hung on a mahogany stand beside the bed, and
above, almost concealed by his coat, was the bell. Jones's eyes
were fixed on the darkish smear, over and around the bell, on the
white paint.

I measured the height of the bell from the bed. It was well above,
and to one side--a smear rather than a print, too indeterminate
to be of any value, sinister, cruel.

"He didn't do that, Charlie," I said. "He couldn't have got up
to it after--That is the murderer's mark. He leaned there, one
hand against the wall, to look down at his work. And, without
knowing it, he pressed the button that roused the two women."

He had not heard the story of Henrietta Sloane, and, as we waited,
I told him. Some of the tension was relaxing. He tried, in his
argumentative German way, to drag me into a discussion as to the
foreordination of a death that resulted from an accidental ringing