Jim Horton sprang out into the hallway, drawing his automatic, and threw himself against the studio door. It was locked. He assaulted it again, again, and at last the door-jamb tore away and he was precipitated into the middle of the room, revolver in hand, glaring about him, Piquette close beside him, her eyes distended with horror.
In the middle of the floor near the fireplace lay the figure of a man, quite motionless, a dark blotch growing on the rug beneath his body. And the distorted face turned toward the feeble light of the flickering gas-jet was that of his brother—Harry.
"Sainte Vierge," came from Piquette in an awed tone. "'E 'as kill' 'imself."
But Jim was bending over the body.
"Impossible. A knife under the arm—in the heart. It's murder!"
He straightened, keenly alert, and searched the room quickly, weapon in hand, thoroughly, aware of its possibilities for concealment. A chair was overturned but the lay figure, the draperies, the easel were undisturbed, and the door into the kitchen was locked, the key on the outside, as before. The thing was unbelievable, and the mystery deepened as he searched. Moira was not here—had not been here—he was sure of it now. This trap, super-natural it seemed, had been set to catch Jim Horton and Harry—God knows how or why—Harry had walked into it.
As Piquette bent over to examine the dead man, Horton hauled her away quickly. He had just wits enough left to know how dangerous was his own position.
"Don't touch anything—this is a case for the police. Come."
And he led the way down the stairs to the second floor, shouting incoherently for help, while Piquette, her tongue loosened, now ably seconded him. And in a moment, it seemed, the entire household appeared in the hallway, while people from the court and from the street came crowding up.
Horton, who knew that there was no possibility of the murderer's escape by the window, stood at the stair on the second floor, guarding it, still bewildered by the mystery, trying to explain while the crowd surged up and a police officer who had been passing, forced his way through. To him Piquette, gathering her courage, explained, telling him briefly what had happened while they had watched from the room upstairs. The police officer went up with Horton and Piquette, and entered the studio, the crowd following to the door, where the policeman commanded them to stop. Then while he questioned Piquette he lighted all the burners and examined the body, then the closet, the windows and with drawn weapon approached the door to the kitchenette. It was still locked, the key still in the door. He turned the key—then locked it again.