I had often told Laura that if I ever did fall in love it would be at first sight, and now it had come. Not only Janet Pembroke's beauty and the pathetic appeal of her sorrowful face attracted me, but I was fascinated by the mystery of the girl.

The astounding news that had just been told her was so much worse than the mere fact of her uncle's death, that I fully expected her to show her emotion in desperate hysterics. But instead, it seemed to rouse in her a spirit of courage and self-reliance, and though it was quite evident that she was making a great effort, yet she ably succeeded in controlling herself perfectly.

There was no use blinking the fact; I had fallen in love with Janet Pembroke. And as the truth of the fearful tragedy penetrated her dazed brain, and she seemed so sadly in need of comfort and help my impulse was to go to her, and tell her of my sympathy and regard.

As this was out of the question, I was glad to see Laura sit by the girl's side and soothe her with kindly caresses. But, to my surprise, Janet did not faint, nor did she seem in any danger of physical collapse. On the contrary, Doctor Post's remark seemed to arouse her to action. She sat up very straight, and, though the rest of her face was perfectly white, a red spot glowed in either cheek.

"The coroner?" she said, in a strained, unnatural voice. "What would he do?"

"It is necessary, my child, that he be summoned," said Doctor Masterson, "since your uncle did not die a natural death."

"But what will he do?" persisted Janet.

"He will ask questions of all who know anything about the matter, and try to discover the one who did the awful deed."

"Of course, Janet," observed George Lawrence, "we must call the coroner. It is always done, I believe, in such a case as this."

"Very well," said Janet; "but it is all so dreadful—I can't realize it. Who killed Uncle Robert? Was it a burglar? Did he steal anything?"

She seemed to be talking quite at random. George answered her kindly, and his manner was gentle and affectionate.

"We don't know, Janet dear," he said. "That is what the coroner will inquire into."

I was thankful that my own business did not imperatively demand my presence at my office that day, and I concluded to stay where I was, at any rate, until the coroner arrived.

I would doubtless be called as a witness, and, too, I trusted I could be of help to Janet.

The girl puzzled while she fascinated me. She seemed so helpless and alone, and yet she showed a strange courage—almost bravado.

George Lawrence, too, was reserved and self-contained, and I imagined they both inherited something of their dead uncle's strength of character.

Doctor Masterson had telephoned for the coroner, who said he would come soon and bring an inspector.

Then Laura persuaded Miss Pembroke to go with her across to our own apartment, and rest there for a time. This plan commended itself to Doctor Masterson, and he told Janet not to return until he sent for her.

Doctor Post said he would return to his office, but would come up to the apartment again when called for.

He contrived to have a short talk with me before leaving.

"There's more to this than appears on the surface," he declared, with the air of imparting information of value. "This is a most cold-blooded murder, carefully planned and cleverly carried out. The criminal is no ordinary sneak thief or burglar."

"That may be," I returned, "but if so, it is the coroner's place to discover and punish the murderer. Surely we can do nothing."

"We ought to," urged Doctor Post; "we ought to examine the whole place carefully for clues."

"I confess, Doctor Post," I returned, "that I should be glad to do so. My inclinations, like yours, are toward going to work at once. But we are not in authority, and Doctor Masterson is. It is only courteous to him and to Miss Pembroke to acquiesce in their wishes."

So, reluctantly, Doctor Post went away, and I observed that Doctor Masterson seemed relieved at his departure.

"It's a bad business," said the doctor to young Lawrence. "I can't understand it."

"It's horrible!" exclaimed George Lawrence, covering his face with his hands. "Why, I was here yesterday afternoon, and Uncle Robert was particularly well, and particularly——"

He paused, and with a grim smile Doctor Masterson completed the sentence: "Particularly cantankerous?"

"Yes, sir, he was," said Lawrence candidly. "I think I never saw him in a worse rage, and all about nothing. He stormed at Janet until the poor girl cried, and then he scolded her for that. But I suppose his gout was pretty bad, and that always made him ugly."

"Where do you live now, George?" inquired Doctor Masterson.

"I've bachelor rooms down in Washington Square. Not as comfortable in some ways as I was here, but good enough on the whole. I must make a home for Janet somewhere now. It's all dreadful, to be sure, but, really, she'll be happier without Uncle Robert, in every way."

"She inherits property?" I asked, and, because of Lawrence's confidential manner, my casual question did not seem impertinent.

"She and I are the only heirs," he said straightforwardly. "Uncle Robert's will is no secret. It was made long ago, and as we are his only relatives he left us equal inheritors. I don't care about that part of it, but I'm glad Janet is to have some money of her own. Uncle Robert was mighty close with her. I made money enough for my own needs, but Janet couldn't do that, and she had to scrimp outrageously. She's so proud, she won't accept a cent from me, and between uncle's miserliness and his temper she has led an awful life."

"Then I can't feel real regret that Mr. Pembroke is gone," I said, "except that the manner of his taking off is so horrible. Do you suppose that it is the work of burglars?"

"Must have been," said Lawrence. "I haven't looked around at all—I hate all that sort of thing—but I suppose the coroner will clear up all mystery."

"Now, on the contrary," said I, "I have a liking for detective work, and, if there is any occasion for it, I'll be glad to do anything I can for you."

George Lawrence seemed not to hear me.

"Uncle Robert hadn't an enemy in the world, that I know of," he said musingly; "so it must have been a burglar or marauder of some sort."

"Very unusual method for a burglar," said I, thinking of the hat-pin. "Would you mind if I looked about a little bit? I'd like to find the other end of that pin."

"What pin?" asked Lawrence.

"The pin that killed your uncle. The doctors say it was a hat-pin, broken off close to the flesh."

"A hat-pin? How awful!"

The young man gave a shudder, as if sensitive to gruesome pictures.

"Yes," I went on; "and if we could find the head end that broke off, it might be a clue to the murderer."

"Oh, yes, I see. Well, certainly, go and look about all you choose. But excuse me from that sort of thing. I'll get the best detectives, if necessary, but I can't do anything in that way myself."

I readily understood this attitude in one so closely related to the victim of the dreadful deed, and at his permission I determined to search the whole apartment thoroughly. We had been alone during this conversation, as Doctor Masterson had returned to his late patient's room, and the servant, Charlotte, had not reappeared.

I went directly to Mr. Pembroke's bedroom, but when there, I hesitated for a moment before addressing Doctor Masterson.

And then he spoke first; "I freely confess," he said, "that I owe to Doctor Post the discovery of the truth. I was positive it was not a natural death, but my old eyes failed to detect that tiny speck that gave us the solution. However, that does not give Doctor Post the right to pry into the affairs of the Pembroke household. It is now a case for the Coroner, and no one else has a right to interfere."

"I appreciate your attitude, Doctor Masterson," I returned, "but Mr. Lawrence, who is, of course, in authority, has given me permission to search this room, and in fact the whole apartment, for possible clues that may help to solve the mystery."

"Humph," grunted the old Doctor, peering at me through his glasses; "if George says so, of course you may do what you like, but I warn you you'd better let the matter alone."

"Have you any suspicions?" I asked suddenly.

"Suspicions? Goodness, no! How could I have any suspicions? You must be crazy!" And without another word the old man hurriedly left the room.

After this exhibition of anger on his part, I felt myself in an unpleasant position. Perhaps I had been over-zealous in my desire to be of service to Miss Pembroke. Perhaps there were clues or evidences better left undiscovered. But, pshaw! such ideas were absurd. Robert Pembroke had been murdered. It was the duty of any American citizen to do anything in his power toward the discovery of the criminal.

Convinced of this, I set to work at once to make a thorough search of the room for anything that might seem indicative.

I merely glanced at the quiet figure lying on the bed, for such evidence as that might show must be determined by the coroner's physicians. I was only seeking stray clues that might otherwise be overlooked, and that might prove to be of value.

Seating myself in front of the open desk, I noted the carefully filed and labeled documents that filled its pigeon-holes.

I could not bring myself to look into these; for though Lawrence had given me unlimited permission, I felt that this personal sort of investigation should be made only by a member of the family.

But in plain view lay a rubber band and a pencilled memorandum which appeared to have been hastily thrown down. The paper slip seemed to show a receipt for ten thousand dollars brought to Robert Pembroke in payment for some stock sold by his brokers. This might all be an unimportant business detail, but in view of the otherwise tidy condition of the desk, it seemed to me to indicate that the intruder had stolen the money or security noted on the slip, leaving the paper and rubber band behind him.

I might be over-fanciful, but there was certainly no harm in preserving this possible evidence, and I put the slip of paper and the rubber band in my pocket-book.

I saw nothing further of interest about the desk, and I turned my attention to the waste basket. On top of a few other torn papers lay the two stubs of theater tickets, which I had myself thrown there, before I knew that there was a crime in question.

I transferred the two bits of paper to my pocket-book and proceeded to investigate further the torn papers in the basket. They seemed to me to have no bearing whatever upon the case, being mostly circulars, receipted small bills, or ordinary business notes.

However, toward the bottom, I found a torn telegram, which pieced together read, "Expect me on Wednesday evening."

It was addressed to Robert Pembroke, and it was signed J.S.

Of course I put this away with my other findings, for though it might be of no importance whatever, yet the contrary might be equally true.

Rising from the desk, I saw a folded paper on the floor near by and picked it up. This proved to be a time-table of local trains on the Lackawanna Railroad. It was not probable that the burglar had left this as a clue to his travels,—it was more likely that it had belonged to Mr. Pembroke or his niece,—but I put it in my pocket, with the general idea of collecting any evidence possible.

Further minute search of the floor revealed nothing whatever but an ordinary hair-pin. With two women in the household, this was not an astonishing find, but I kept it, among my other acquisitions.

At last, feeling convinced that there was nothing more to be learned from the room, I was about to leave it, when I paused by the bedside. Near the foot of the bed, and outside the counterpane, I noticed a handkerchief. I picked it up and its large size proved it to belong to a man. Though slightly crumpled, it was quite fresh, and in the corner three small letters, W.S.G. were embroidered in fine white stitches. These initials were not Robert Pembroke's, and there were of course many plausible explanations of the presence of the handkerchief. But since it didn't seem to represent the property of any member of the household, I felt myself justified in folding it carefully and putting it in my pocket.

As I left the room I cast a final glance around it, feeling certain that a more skilled detective would have discovered many things that I had overlooked, and probably would have scorned to look upon as clues the collection of articles I had pocketed.

But knowing nothing of the personality or habits of Robert Pembroke, it was difficult indeed to judge intelligently the contents and condition of his bedroom.