One fact, however, was revealed—­some man had been sleeping up here lately, and it was not Coombs, but a much smaller Individual.  This knowledge made me even more cautious, as I tiptoed down the hall, now narrowed by the back stairway.  The first door opened into a bath-room, the tub half full of dirty water, a mussed towel on the floor.  The last door, leading to a room apparently extending clear across the rear of the house, was tightly closed.  I set my lamp down well out of sight, and gripped my revolver, before attempting to manipulate the knob.  It opened noiselessly; moonlight streamed through one window, where the curtain was not closely drawn, but the gloom was too dense to reveal much of the shrouded interior.  I could dimly perceive a table, and some chairs, one overturned.  There was no movement, however; no sign of present occupancy.  Convinced as to this, I slipped back for my lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room.  A single glance revealed everything.  The table, a common deal affair, contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty glasses, together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these scattered about the floor.  There was no other furniture, and the walls were bare, a dirty gray color.  But what my eyes rested upon in sudden horror, was the body of a man, curled up in a ball on the floor as a dog lies, his face hidden in his arms.  That he was dead I knew at a glance.

I had seen violent death often, but this was different, and I shrank back, staring at that motionless form as though stricken by paralysis.  There was no movement in the room, no sound except the fluttering of a curtain.  With effort I gained control over my nerves, and moved slowly forward, placing my lamp on the table, so as to have both hands free.  This murder—­or was it suicide?—­had occurred within ten minutes.  I turned the man over, revealing a bearded face, the features prominent but refined.  He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of excellent material.  He had been shot in the back of the head.

It was murder then—­murder!  In an instant I pictured the tragedy exactly as it must have occurred—­the open window, the overturned chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story.  Just what was the fellow doing here alone at that hour?  Why should he have been killed?  Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted darkness.  A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and across the man’s body.  With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I stole across the floor, and glanced out.  A single story extension, probably the kitchen roof, was below.  Kneeling upon this the assassin could easily fire into the room.  Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense forest growth.  To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a row of small cabins, the negro quarters.  Coombs would be occupying one of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night.  Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.