Evidence of the explosion was slight to the investigating eye of
Average Jones. The wall showed an abrasion, but, as the
investigator expected, no bullet hole. Against the leg of a desk he
found a small metal shell, which he laid on the table.

"There's your bullet," he observed with a smile.

"It's a cartridge, anyway," cried the hotel man. "He must have been
shot, after all."

"From inside the room? Hardly! And certainly not with that. It's
a very small fulminate of mercury shell, and never held lead. No.
The man was down, if not dead, before that went off."

Average Jones was now at the window. Taking a piece of paper from
his pocket he brushed the contents of the window-sill upon it. A
dozen dead flies rolled upon the paper. He examined them
thoughtfully, cast them aside and turned back to the manager.

"Who occupy the adjoining rooms?"

"Two maiden ladies did, on the east. They've left," said the
manager bitterly. "Been coming here for ten years, and now they've
quit. If the facts ever get in the newspapers--"

"What's on the west, adjoining?"

"Nothing. The corridor runs down there."