The Circular Study | Page 4

to the
already solemn terrors of the spot.
"Childish tricks for a man of his age and position," ruminated Mr.
Gryce; but after catching another glimpse of the face lying upturned at
his feet he was conscious of a doubt as to whether the owner of that
countenance could have possessed an instinct which was in any wise
childish, so strong and purposeful were his sharply cut features. Indeed,
the face was one to make an impression under any circumstances. In
the present instance, and with such an expression stamped upon it, it
exerted a fascination which disturbed the current of the detective's
thoughts whenever by any chance he allowed it to get between him and
his duty. To attribute folly to a man with such a mouth and such a chin
was to own one's self a poor judge of human nature. Therefore, the
lamp overhead, with its electric connection and changing slides, had a
meaning which at present could be sought for only in the evidences of
scientific research observable in the books and apparatus everywhere
surrounding him.
Letting the white light burn on, Mr. Gryce, by a characteristic effort,
shifted his attention to the walls, covered, as I have said, with tapestries
and curios. There was nothing on them calculated to aid him in his
research into the secret of this crime, unless--yes, there was something,
a bent-down nail, wrenched from its place, the nail on which the cross
had hung which now lay upon the dead man's heart. The cord by which
it had been suspended still clung to the cross and mingled its red
threads with that other scarlet thread which had gone to meet it from
the victim's wounded breast. Who had torn down that cross? Not the
victim himself. With such a wound, any such movement would have
been impossible. Besides, the nail and the empty place on the wall were
as far removed from where he lay as was possible in the somewhat

circumscribed area of this circular apartment. Another's hand, then, had
pulled down this symbol of peace and pardon, and placed it where the
dying man's fleeting breath would play across it, a peculiar exhibition
of religious hope or mad remorse, to the significance of which Mr.
Gryce could not devote more than a passing thought, so golden were
the moments in which he found himself alone upon this scene of crime.
Behind the table and half-way up the wall was a picture, the only large
picture in the room. It was the portrait of a young girl of an extremely
interesting and pathetic beauty. From her garb and the arrangement of
her hair, it had evidently been painted about the end of our civil war. In
it was to be observed the same haunting quality of intellectual charm
visible in the man lying prone upon the floor, and though she was fair
and he dark, there was sufficient likeness between the two to argue
some sort of relationship between them. Below this picture were
fastened a sword, a pair of epaulettes, and a medal such as was awarded
for valor in the civil war.
"Mementoes which may help us in our task," mused the detective.
Passing on, he came unexpectedly upon a narrow curtain, so dark of
hue and so akin in pattern to the draperies on the adjoining walls that it
had up to this time escaped his attention. It was not that of a window,
for such windows as were to be seen in this unique apartment were high
upon the wall, indeed, almost under the ceiling. It must, therefore,
drape the opening into still another communicating room. And such he
found to be the case. Pushing this curtain aside, he entered a narrow
closet containing a bed, a dresser, and a small table. The bed was the
narrow cot of a bachelor, and the dresser that of a man of luxurious
tastes and the utmost nicety of habit. Both the bed and dresser were in
perfect order, save for a silver-backed comb, which had been taken
from the latter, and which he presently found lying on the floor at the
other end of the room. This and the presence of a pearl-handled parasol
on a small stand near the door proclaimed that a woman had been there
within a short space of time. The identity of this woman was soon
established in his eyes by a small but unmistakable token connecting
her with the one who had been the means of sending in the alarm to the

police. The token of which I speak was a little black spangle, called by
milliners and mantua-makers a sequin, which lay on the threshold
separating this room from the study; and as Mr. Gryce, attracted by its
sparkle, stooped to examine