Then, before extinguishing the lights, I approached that silent figure on the stretcher, lifted the sheet and looked for the last time upon the face of my dead friend.  It was no longer staring and terrible, but calm and peaceful as in sleep—­almost smiling.  With wet eyes and contracted throat, I covered the face again, turned out the lights, and left the room.  Parks met me in the hall, carrying a cot, which he placed close across the doorway.

“There,” he said; “nobody will get into that room without my knowing it.”

“No,” I agreed; and then a sudden thought occurred to me.  “Parks,” I said, “is it true that there is a burglar-alarm on all the windows?”

“Yes, sir.  It rings a bell in Mr. Vantine’s bedroom, and another in mine, and sends in a call to the police.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Vantine himself tested it this evening just before dinner.”

“Then why didn’t it work when I opened those windows just now?” I demanded.

Parks laughed.

“Because I threw off the switch, sir,” he explained, “when I came out to get the shutters.  The switch is in a little iron box on the wall just back of the stairs, sir.  It’s one of my duties to turn it on every night before I go to bed.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is it on again, now?”

“It certainly is, sir.  After what you told me, I’d not be likely to forget it.”

“You’d better have a weapon handy, too,” I suggested.

“I have a revolver, sir.”

“That’s good.  And don’t hesitate to use it.  I’m going home—­I’m dead tired.”

“Shall I call a cab, sir?”

“No, the walk will do me good.  I’ll see you to-morrow.”

Parks helped me into my coat and opened the door for me.  Glancing back, after a moment, I saw that he was standing on the steps gazing after me.  I could understand his reluctance to go back into that death-haunted house; and I found myself breathing deeply with the relief of getting out of it.

CHAPTER IX

GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE

The walk uptown did me good.  The rain had ceased, and the air felt clean and fresh as though it had been washed.  I took deep breaths of it, and the feeling of fatigue and depression which had weighed upon me gradually vanished.  I was in no hurry—­went out of my way a little, indeed, to walk out into Madison Square and look back at the towering mass of the Flatiron building, creamy and delicate as carved ivory under the rays of the moon—­and it was long past midnight when I finally turned in at the Marathon.  Higgins, the janitor, was just closing the outer doors, and he joined me in the elevator a moment later.

“There’s a gentleman waiting to see you, sir,” he said, as the car started upward.  “Mr. Godfrey, sir.  He came in about ten minutes ago.  He said you were expecting him, so I let him into your rooms.”