"There was no one there," said a man who seemed much at home. "One of us went in when we came up the stair and came out saying it was empty. Look! You may see for yourself." And he threw the door open while the officer investigated. He came out more puzzled than ever, rejoining Horton and Piquette at the door of the studio, summoning the man and one or two of the others, with Horton and Piquette, as witnesses, taking the names and addresses carefully.

"This is a case for the Commissaire," he said to them. "You will please wait."

CHAPTER XXII

MYSTERY

The sudden extraordinary turn of events and the inexplicable horror of his brother's death had so bewildered Jim Horton that he stood awaiting the arrival of the Commissaire de Police in a kind of stupefaction, looking down at the huddled form of the man upon the floor, unable to think with any clearness. The officer requested him not to move or touch anything, and Piquette stood beside Jim as though to give him courage. But the policeman kept an eye on Horton and remained by the door, watching outside and in as though guarding it against his possible escape. Horton noticed this but remained immovable, aware that the fellow was only doing his duty, and that further explanations must await the arrival of the Commissaire, who had been telephoned for.

The furniture of the studio, each object of which possessed for Jim some poignant association, seemed strangely familiar, yet unreal. The chairs, the rugs, the hangings, had suddenly become merely a background for the body lying among them, a part of it, linked in a horrible conspiracy of silence, Moira's plain furniture, her easel, which still bore the placid portrait of the indomitable Parisienne who had refused to be a froussarde; the arm chair by the fireplace in which Moira had sat, the table from which they had supped; the lay figure in its old costume, felt hat and draperies; the couch by the window; the brass bowl on the mantel, full of Moira's brushes—all of them spoke so eloquently of her. And Moira....

He frowned as he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The knife in his brother's side had been intended for him. There was no doubt of that, and the motive for the crime was obvious.... Quinlevin.... Tricot? Yes. But how? His glance passed over the room again and again, seeking in vain the answer. His guardian had preferred to await the arrival of his superior before examining the kitchenette and bed-rooms, but with the door locked upon the outside there was no hope that the solution of the mystery would be found there.

Meanwhile, Jim Horton's mind became slowly impregnated with the realization of his own position which must become more dubious when he answered the questions of the Commissaire, for answer them he must, telling the whole of his story if it were necessary, without thought of consequences to himself or others. The future became at each moment more ominous. Horrible as the thought was, they might even suspect him of this crime and even if he escaped that disaster, with the publicity which must follow, the Provost Guard awaited him. But at his side was Piquette, who had seen what he had seen and who knew what he knew and he felt her fingers clasp his with a valiant touch that gave him courage and assurance.

And in a short while the Commissaire entered, followed by his secretary, several Agents and newspaper men. The Commissaire, Monsieur Matthieu, was a man of medium height strongly built, with small sharp eyes, and reddish hair. He went about the affair with a business-like mien, exchanging a few words with the policeman who had first come, glancing quickly at Horton, Piquette, and the other witnesses.

"Let no one enter the room," he said in his sharp staccato, when he had selected his witnesses. "Let no one leave it."