As David Curtis crossed the threshold of the door of John Meredith’s bedroom Doctor Leonard McLane sprang forward with a low ejaculation.

“Dave! It’s you—really you,” he exclaimed. “Penfield said a Doctor Curtis was here, but it did not dawn on me that it was you.” He looked closely at his old friend and his expression of eager welcome gave place to one of compassion. His handclasp tightened. “I’m—”

“Leonard McLane,” Curtis’ tired face lightened. “I recognized your voice when you first spoke.”

“The same keen ears.” McLane pulled forward a chair, and helped his blind companion into it. “I recollect your memory tests; they were almost uncanny—”

“Freakish, is a better word,” broke in Curtis, and a short sigh, which McLane caught, completed his sentence. “My early training is standing me in good stead, for which,” his smile was whimsical, “praise be!” A movement to his right caused him to cease speaking as Coroner Penfield stepped into the room.

“You are acquainted, gentlemen?” he asked, observing McLane’s hand resting on his friend’s shoulder.

“Well, rather!” McLane smiled broadly. “We were pals at McGill Institute in Canada and graduated in the same class. I came here and Doctor Curtis went to Boston.”

“Where I remained until I went overseas with the Canadian forces at the outbreak of the World War,” added Curtis. “I saw service with them until we entered the War and then joined an American medical unit. I was blinded in the Argonne.” He stopped for a moment, then asked, “Am I speaking to Coroner Penfield?”

“I beg pardon, I thought that you two had met,” ejaculated McLane, as Penfield shook Curtis’ extended hand.

“I know Doctor Curtis by reputation,” the latter said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, even in such a ghastly business as this,” and he wrung Curtis’ hand hard before releasing it.

“It is a ghastly business,” agreed McLane gravely. “A most shocking affair.”

His words were echoed by Sam Hollister who, at that instant, came into the room followed by Inspector Mitchell.

“Meredith’s suicide has fairly stunned me,” he added, as the men grouped themselves about Curtis, who occupied the only chair in that part of the room. “It is incomprehensible, astounding. A man in the best of health—”

“Hold on!” Coroner Penfield held up his hand. “Let me do the questioning, Hollister.” He turned to McLane. “You were Mr. Meredith’s family physician, were you not?”

“Yes; for the past five years.”

“Was he in good health?”

“He had made an excellent recovery from a nervous breakdown,” explained McLane. “Yes, I should say that he was, until last night, enjoying normal health.”

“Why until last night?” questioned Hollister, and Penfield frowned at the interruption.

“Last night—he died,” replied McLane dryly, and would have added more, but Penfield again cut in on the conversation.

“Can you place the exact time at which you found Meredith, Doctor Curtis?” he asked, turning to the surgeon.

“A quarter past two this morning,” answered Curtis. “Meredith was dead when I tripped over his body.” He paused. “I should say, however, that he died only a few minutes before my arrival.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Hollister, and McLane glanced at the little lawyer in some surprise; his manner was far from courteous.

“By the warmth of his body and its limp condition.” Curtis spoke quietly, his sightless eyes turned toward Hollister. “Besides, I heard Meredith coming down the corridor as I came up the staircase.”

“Did he walk briskly?” asked Hollister before Inspector Mitchell could speak.

Curtis shook his head. “He appeared to drag one foot after the other; then I heard a soft thud—”

“Probably staggered along the hall and fell,” broke in Mitchell.

“But where was he going?” persisted Hollister, not deterred by Coroner Penfield’s irritation at his continuous questions.

“We have not yet found an answer to that question,” replied Mitchell.

“He was probably on his way to summon help,” suggested McLane.

“But he had the house telephone right here at hand,” objected Hollister.

“If he regretted his rash act and wished immediate aid he did not have to leave his room and crawl down the hall to find it.” He looked belligerently at the others. “Why didn’t John cry out? That would have been the quickest way to have awakened us.”

“A man with such a gash in his throat would not have breath enough to shout,” McLane pointed out.

“He could not have lived ten minutes after—”

“Inflicting it,” supplemented Hollister. “Then it is all the more extraordinary that he left his bedroom and tried to go down this winding corridor.”

Coroner Penfield and Inspector Mitchell exchanged glances.

“Mr. Hollister,” the latter asked, “when did you last see Meredith?”

“On my way to bed,” responded the lawyer. “I looked in for a moment. It was just after I left you in the library,” he turned to Curtis; “about eleven-twenty, I suppose.”

“And where was Meredith?” asked Mitchell patiently.

“Here in his room, reading in bed, as was his custom.” Hollister twisted the ends of his waxed mustache until they pointed upward.

“And did he appear in his usual health or did he evince any, eh, morbid tendencies?” Mitchell hesitated over his words, but Hollister’s reply was instant.

“He seemed to be his usual self except that he showed unusual excitement over the—” with a side-long glance at Curtis—“arrangements for the marriage of his niece, Anne, to Doctor Curtis.”

Curtis lifted his head. “Ah, then you told him the result of our conversation?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And did it appear satisfactory to him?”

“Yes.” Hollister paused before adding: “John insisted upon my drawing up the prenuptial settlements so that he might sign the agreement before I left.”

“Oh, so he signed some legal papers, did he?” Mitchell looked keenly at the lawyer and then at Curtis; the latter’s expression puzzled him, and he put his next question without removing his gaze from the blind surgeon. “Can you let me see the papers?”

Hollister shook his head. “I haven’t them,” he answered. “I left the papers lying on the bed by John Meredith.”

With one accord the Coroner, Inspector Mitchell and Leonard McLane wheeled around and stared at the carved four-post mahogany bedstead which occupied one side of the large room. It was evident that the bed had been slept in; the pillows were tumbled about and the bedclothes turned back in disorder. A dressing gown lay on the floor not far from the bed. No papers of any kind were on the bed, but on the right side an ominous red stain had spread a zigzag course from the under sheet to the carpet.

Curtis broke the long pause. “I take it the papers are not on the bed now, judging from your silence,” he said. “Was any one, beside yourself, Hollister, aware that Meredith had drawn up this, what did you call it—”

“Prenuptial agreement,” interposed Hollister.

“The witnesses knew—”

“And who were the witnesses?” asked Mitchell, notebook in hand.

“Miss Lucille Hull and Gerald Armstrong.” Hollister glanced keenly about the bedroom and moved as if to cross to a mahogany secretary which stood near one of the windows. “Perhaps they are in Meredith’s secretary—”

“Just a moment, Mr. Hollister,” Coroner Penfield held out a detaining hand. “Nothing is to be touched in this room. Inspector Mitchell and I will conduct a thorough search later on. In the meantime have you any notes, any memorandum of the agreement signed by Meredith last night which you could give us?”

Hollister nodded. “I made a rough copy, and if I remember correctly I stuffed it in the pocket of my dinner jacket. I’ll get it,” and he started for the door, only to be halted at the threshold by a question from Coroner Penfield.

“After the signing of the agreement were you the first to leave Mr. Meredith, or did the witnesses go first?” he asked.

Hollister thought a moment. “Gerald Armstrong left immediately,” he said. “Miss Hull and I started to go at the same time, but Meredith called her back.”

“I see,” Penfield paused, then looked up. “All right, Mr. Hollister, if you will get that paper for me, I’ll be much obliged.” As Hollister disappeared through the doorway, he turned to Mitchell. “Inspector, will you look up Miss Hull and Mr. Armstrong and tell them that I wish to see them within the next half hour.”

“Do you wish to see them together?” questioned Mitchell, stopping halfway to the door.

“No, one at a time,” and Mitchell hurried away as Fernando, the Filipino, upon the point of entering, stepped back to allow him to pass from the room.

“If you please, sir,” said the latter, reappearing and bowing low to McLane. “Doctor Pen is wanted on the telephone.”

McLane, knowing Fernando’s habit of clipping names, smiled. “It’s you he wants, Penfield,” he explained, and as the coroner went out of the bedroom, followed by Fernando, he closed the hall door and turned to Curtis.

“The years drop away, Dave,” he drew up a chair as he spoke. “It seems only yesterday that we were together in Montreal.”

quoted Curtis, and his voice held a depth of pathos which touched McLane. “I’ve heard with delight, Leonard, of your success and of your happy marriage.”

“My wife is—well,” McLane laughed, a trifle embarrassed. “You must meet her and then you’ll know for yourself how dear she is. Why haven’t you let me know you were in Washington, Dave?”

“I intended to do so to-day anyway, even if this tragedy had not happened,” explained Curtis. “John Meredith yesterday promised to run me in to see you this morning.”

McLane eyed him closely. “I had no idea you were an intimate friend of John Meredith’s.”

“I wasn’t,” broke in Curtis. “I only met him ten days ago at Walter Reed—”

“What?”

Curtis nodded. “Just so,” he exclaimed. “I saw Meredith again on Monday and he very kindly insisted that I come over here last Friday evening, and spend the week with him.”

McLane glanced at his watch, then turned again to his companion. “Is it really true,” he spoke with some hesitation, “really true that you are to marry Anne Meredith?”

Again Curtis nodded his head. “It is as wild as an Arabian Nights’ romance,” he said somberly. “John Meredith appealed to the latent dare-devil spirit that still lingers with me by such an extraordinary proposition.”

“Exactly what was the proposition?” questioned McLane.

“Meredith wished me to marry his niece, Anne, and declared that after the ceremony I need never meet her again except for a few months each year at Ten Acres,” replied Curtis. “He agreed to settle twenty-five thousand dollars a year on us individually.”

“A very tidy sum,” interposed McLane.

“And mental degradation!” The words came almost in a whisper. “Meredith tempted me more than he knew. To be handicapped with blindness and poverty, and then to be offered a chance to get away, to have some means of subsistence for the life remaining to me—on the other hand, the humiliation of taking such a means of rescue. God!” He shaded his face with his hand.

McLane leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “I understand,” he said softly. “You agreed to Meredith’s proposal—”

“Only after I had been told by the girl’s mother that Meredith would otherwise disinherit his niece and that thus she would be left penniless,” answered Curtis. “Then I consented to go through with the ceremony.”

“One for Anne and two for herself,” McLane muttered, too low for Curtis to catch the words, then raised his voice. “Take it from me, Dave, Mrs. Marshall Meredith is Satan in petticoats.”

Curtis laughed mirthlessly. “It would seem so,” he agreed. “Think of it, man, was there ever so mad a scheme? A bride, and one that I have never laid eyes on. I wonder if she be ugly as Hecate or with the temper of Xanthippe.”

“Neither, I assure you,” replied McLane warmly. “Anne Meredith could not do a mean or dishonorable act. Convent bred, she is at times painfully shy, but she has plenty of character. And,” McLane wound up, “she is very beautiful.”

Curtis passed a nervous hand across his sightless eyes. “What you say makes our marriage appear even more unsuitable; in fact, a mockery. I am a derelict—human flotsam—whereas Anne Meredith is at the threshold of life with the world before her.”

McLane stood up and looked down at his companion. “Blindness with you will not be a handicap,” he said stoutly. “I know your capabilities, Dave; your generous heart and splendid courage. I am not afraid of the future for either you or Anne,” and as Curtis opened his lips to speak, he asked: “But tell me, what inspired Meredith’s wish that you and Anne should marry?”

Curtis rose also and stood leaning on his cane. “Good knows, I don’t,” he said. “I have absolutely no idea why he wished the marriage to take place, or why he selected me—a blind man and a stranger—to be the bridegroom.”

McLane stared at him in incredulity. “Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated finally. “Has no one any inkling of the reason?”

“Sam Hollister said last night that Meredith would tell us after the marriage ceremony,” answered Curtis. “But now he is dead.”

“Another mystery!” McLane drew a long breath. “Upon my word, Dave, you have two very pretty problems on your hands.”

Curtis swung closer to his side. “You think that the two are linked together?” he asked. “Meredith’s sudden determined wish for this marriage and then his death—”

McLane hesitated. “It’s impossible to say at this stage of the investigation,” he admitted. “And it is early to surmise.” His voice trailed off as he stopped to glance about the bedroom. Curtis’ hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the blind surgeon.

“Describe the room, Leonard,” he suggested. “Everything, just as it stands now.”

“I judge the room’s about fifteen by twenty-two feet,” McLane began. “There are four windows opening on a balcony, two facing the east and two the north. Two closet doors, one ajar, and another door leads to the bathroom.”

“And the furniture,” prompted Curtis, as McLane stopped speaking.

“The four-post bedstead, a bed table, with reading lamp and smoking set on it; a highboy and a bureau with toilet silver.” Curtis was listening with close attention to every detail. “Meredith’s desk-secretary is near the east window, and there is a table with books and magazines upon it and another reading lamp near the bathroom door.”

“What about chairs?”

“Three; one a large tufted lounging chair near the north window; a chair by the desk, and, eh,” bending his head to peer around—

“One by the bed,” supplemented Curtis. “It is overturned.”

McLane glanced at him in astonishment. “It is,” he admitted. “But I can only see the legs of the chair from where we are standing. How did you know the chair was there and lying on the floor?”

“Intuition perhaps, or only a good guess,” Curtis smiled oddly. “On which side of the bed is it? On the side Meredith climbed out?”

“No, on the far side.” Curtis nodded his head thoughtfully as he stepped forward.

“Which way is the bed?” he asked. For answer McLane led him to it.

With touch deft as a woman’s, Curtis passed his hands over the pillows and the bolster, leaving them undisturbed; then his hands traveled across the sheet, hovered for a second on the edges of the bloodstain and followed its course over the side of the bed and from the valance to the carpet.

As he dropped on one knee and ran his fingers along the carpet the hall door opened and Coroner Penfield entered. He halted abruptly at sight of David Curtis creeping across the floor, his long sensitive fingers playing up and down the carpet, and glanced questioningly at McLane. Before the latter could explain Curtis broke the silence.

“Meredith must have either fallen or stooped over here,” he said. “Oh, I forgot,” his smile was a bit twisted. “You can see this and deduct it for yourself.”

“But we can’t,” cut in Penfield quickly. “What makes you think Meredith stopped there? It is not on the way to the door.”

“Because of the amount of blood on this spot.” Curtis raised his head. “See for yourself.”

“But we can’t see the blood,” exclaimed McLane. “The carpet is red.”

“So!” Curtis paused as Penfield bent down and felt the spot indicated by the blind surgeon.

“You are right,” he exclaimed. “The carpet has been saturated with blood. What was Meredith doing in this corner of the room? There are no stains on the mahogany wainscoting,” he added, as Curtis turned to his left and ran his hands over the wall, “nor on the paper.”

“It is quite possible that Meredith lost his sense of direction,” suggested Curtis, rising. “He was probably frightfully weak from loss of blood. It is remarkable that he got as far as he did with such a wound. Is the bed to my left?”

“Yes, this way.” Penfield, as interested as McLane, followed Curtis back to the four-poster. “Inspector Mitchell followed my instructions, and nothing has been touched in this bedroom.”

“You are quite certain that no one has entered since your arrival?” asked Curtis.

“Positive. Mitchell stationed a detective outside the door and another on the balcony on which these windows open,” with a jerk of his hand in their direction. “Well, what the—”

The coroner’s voice failed him as Curtis, who had approached the bed from its other side, dexterously avoiding, as he did so, the overturned chair, lifted the tossed-back sheet, blanket and counterpane and disclosed a parrot. The bird, its brilliant plumage sadly tumbled, lay inert upon its side, its eyes closed.

“Good Lord! Ruffles!” exclaimed McLane. “Is he dead?”

Curtis picked up the parrot and examined it. “There’s a heartbeat; pretty feeble, but the bird’s alive.” Suddenly he raised the bird and sniffed at its beak, then bent over and put his head down where the parrot had lain.

“Why in the world didn’t the parrot get out from under the bedclothes before it was smothered,” exclaimed Penfield. “I’ve always understood that parrots were nearly human.”

“Ruffles is,” declared McLane. “I can tell you many stories of his sagacity. Meredith was devoted to the bird. He never tired of hearing him talk—he said that Ruffles took the place of wife and watchdog.”

“Watchdog?” Curtis raised his head. “Um!” He held up the parrot. “Carry him over to the window, Leonard; the fresh air may revive him. He has been chloroformed.”

“Well, I’ll be d—mned!” ejaculated a voice behind them and Inspector Mitchell, who had returned a few minutes before, went with McLane to the window and carried the parrot’s stand to him. McLane laid Ruffles on the flooring under the perch and refilled the water cup, sprinkling some of its contents on the bird, and then pulled back the curtains so that the air blew slightly upon it.

Curtis wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and turned to Coroner Penfield.

“Where have you taken Meredith’s body?” he asked.

“To the empty bedroom next to this,” answered Penfield. “We will hold an autopsy there within the hour. McLane will aid me. Would you care to be present, Doctor Curtis?”

“Yes, if I may.” Curtis moved over to the window. “How is the parrot, Leonard?”

“Coming out of his stupor,” Mitchell answered for McLane, who had gone into the bathroom. “There, Ruffles, drink a little water.” He held the cup up to the bird. “Have you called the inquest, Doctor Penfield?”

“Yes; it will be held this afternoon,” answered the coroner. “Will that suit your plans, Mitchell?”

“Sure!” Mitchell set the parrot on its perch and placed a steadying hand on its back as the beadlike black eyes regarded him with an unwinking stare. “Will the inquest be here or at the morgue?”

“I haven’t quite decided.” Penfield stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But I have fully decided that Meredith’s death is not a case of suicide, but of murder.”

McLane, reentering the bedroom, stopped as if shot and gazed in horror at the coroner. Curtis replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and changed his cane to his right hand.

“May I ask what has led you to that conclusion. Doctor Penfield?”

Penfield hesitated and looked behind him to make certain that the hall door was closed, then lowered his voice to a confidential pitch as the men gathered about him.

“For one thing,” he began, “the absence of any weapon. Had Meredith killed himself the weapon would have been in this bedroom or in the hall. It is a case of murder.”

A hoarse croak from the parrot cut the silence and turning they looked at the bird. Ruffles leered drunkenly at them, before he spoke with startling clearness:

“Anne—I’ve caught you—you devil!”