The Circular Study | Page 5

it, his eye caught sight of a similar one on
the floor beyond, and of still another a few steps farther on. The last
one lay close to the large centre-table before which he had just been
standing.
The dainty trail formed by these bright sparkling drops seemed to affect
him oddly. He knew, minute observer that he was, that in the
manufacture of this garniture the spangles are strung on a thread which,
if once broken, allows them to drop away one by one, till you can
almost follow a woman so arrayed by the sequins that fall from her.
Perhaps it was the delicate nature of the clew thus offered that pleased
him, perhaps it was a recognition of the irony of fate in thus making a
trap for unwary mortals out of their vanities. Whatever it was, the smile
with which he turned his eye upon the table toward which he had thus
been led was very eloquent. But before examining this article of
furniture more closely, he attempted to find out where the thread had
become loosened which had let the spangles fall. Had it caught on any
projection in doorway or furniture? He saw none. All the chairs were
cushioned and--But wait! there was the cross! That had a fretwork of
gold at its base. Might not this filagree have caught in her dress as she
was tearing down the cross from the wall and so have started the thread
which had given him this exquisite clew?
Hastening to the spot where the cross had hung, he searched the floor at
his feet, but found nothing to confirm his conjecture until he had
reached the rug on which the prostrate man lay. There, amid the long
hairs of the bearskin, he came upon one other spangle, and knew that
the woman in the shiny clothes had stooped there before him.
Satisfied on this point, he returned to the table, and this time subjected
it to a thorough and minute examination. That the result was not
entirely unsatisfactory was evident from the smile with which he eyed
his finger after having drawn it across a certain spot near the inkstand,
and also from the care with which he lifted that inkstand and replaced it

in precisely the same spot from which he had taken it up. Had he
expected to find something concealed under it? Who can tell? A
detective's face seldom yields up its secrets.
He was musing quite intently before this table when a quick step
behind him made him turn. Styles, the officer, having now been over
the house, had returned, and was standing before him in the attitude of
one who has something to say.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Gryce, with a quick movement in his direction.
For answer the officer pointed to the staircase visible through the
antechamber door.
"Go up!" was indicated by his gesture.
Mr. Gryce demurred, casting a glance around the room, which at that
moment interested him so deeply. At this the man showed some
excitement, and, breaking silence, said:
"Come! I have lighted on the guilty party. He is in a room upstairs."
"He?" Mr. Gryce was evidently surprised at the pronoun.
"Yes; there can be no doubt about it. When you see him--but what is
that? Is he coming down? I'm sure there's nobody else in the house.
Don't you hear footsteps, sir?"
Mr. Gryce nodded. Some one was certainly descending the stairs.
"Let us retreat," suggested Styles. "Not because the man is dangerous,
but because it is very necessary you should see him before he sees you.
He's a very strange-acting man, sir; and if he comes in here, will be
sure to do something to incriminate himself. Where can we hide?"
Mr. Gryce remembered the little room he had just left, and drew the
officer toward it. Once installed inside, he let the curtain drop till only a
small loophole remained. The steps, which had been gradually growing
louder, kept advancing; and presently they could hear the intruder's

breathing, which was both quick and labored.
"Does he know that any one has entered the house? Did he see you
when you came upon him upstairs?" whispered Mr. Gryce into the ear
of the man beside him.
Styles shook his head, and pointed eagerly toward the opposite door.
The man for whose appearance they waited had just lifted the portière
and in another moment stood in full view just inside the threshold.
Mr. Gryce and his attendant colleague both stared. Was this the
murderer? This pale, lean servitor, with a tray in his hand on which
rested a single glass of water?
Mr. Gryce was so astonished that he looked at Styles for explanation.
But that officer, hiding his own surprise, for he had not