Morgan's home was unpretentious but comfortable. The hand of a
careful and thoughtful housekeeper was in evidence everywhere. In
the big living room, at the front, were several lounging chairs, and
along one wall, between the front windows and the entrance door,
stood two roomy bookcases. A glance at the titles showed the owner's
inquiring and investigative turn of mind. His interest in his
profession was also indicated by several volumes on criminology, and
even popular detective stories of the day. In the center of the room
was a commodious table with a large reading lamp. Beside the table
was the big easy chair in which Morgan always sat, and where many of
the solutions of difficult criminal problems had been worked out by
him. Just across from this easy chair, and within reach of an
outstretched hand, stood a tabouret, holding the telephone.

On the morning following the peculiar occurrence on Sheridan Road,
Morgan was sitting in his favorite chair. His slippered feet were
stretched before him and clouds of smoke hung about as he puffed at
his favorite pipe, selected from a row of about ten that were
hanging on a nearby home-made pipe holder. This might be said to be
an eventful day for Dave Morgan. Only the day before, he and his
partner, Detective Sergeant Tierney, had completed the solving of a
baffling case and placed the criminal behind the bars. Now he had a
well-earned and long-awaited "day off," and he was going to devote
it to the restful pursuit of his favorite amusement--reading.

His mother, a white-haired, pleasant faced little woman, entered the
room.

"Dave," she reminded him, "here's the morning paper. You forgot to
look it over at breakfast."