“Terrified beyond measure, the servant bent over him and discovered he was dead, obviously stabbed with the same weapon that had put an end to Bob Anderson.

“The factotum at once gave the alarm.  Everyone in the College came trooping to the room, and for the second time within three days a general hue and cry was raised.  All, again, to no purpose—­the murderer had left no traces as to his identity.  However, one thing at least was established, and that was the innocence of Dean Kelly and Denis O’Farroll.  They were both liberated.

“Then Hartnoll, who seems to have been a regular Sherlock Holmes, got to work in grim earnest.  On the floor in Maguire’s room he picked up a diminutive silver-topped pencil, which had rolled under the fender and had so escaped observation.  He asked several of Maguire’s most intimate friends if they remembered seeing the pencil-case in Maguire’s possession, but they shook their heads.  He enquired in other quarters, too, but with no better result, and finally resolved to ask Brady, who belonged to quite a different set from himself.  With that object in view he set off to Brady’s room shortly after supper.  As there was no response to his raps, he at length opened Brady’s door.  In front of the hearth in a big easy chair sat a figure.

“‘Brady, by all that’s holy,’ Hartnoll exclaimed.  ’By Jupiter, the beggar’s asleep.  That’s what comes of swotting too hard!  Brady!’

“Approaching the chair he called again, ‘Brady!’ and getting no reply, patted the figure gently on the back.

“‘Be jabbers, you sleep soundly, old fellow!’ he said.  ‘How about that!’ and he shook him heartily by the shoulder.  The instant he let go the figure collapsed.  In order to get a closer view Hartnoll then struck a light with the tinder box.

“The flickering of the candle flame fell on Brady’s face.  It was white—­ghastly white; there was no animation in it; the jaw dropped.

“With a cry of horror Hartnoll sprang back, and as he did so a great yellow dog dashed across the hearth in front of him, whilst from somewhere close at hand came a laugh—­long, low and satirical.  A cold terror gripped Hartnoll, and for a moment or so he was on the verge of fainting.  However, hearing voices in the quadrangle, he pulled himself together, approached the window on tiptoe, and, peering through the glass, perceived to his utmost joy two of his friends directly beneath him.  ‘I say, you fellows,’ he called in low tones, ’come up here quickly—­Brady’s rooms.  I’ve seen the phantom dog.  There’s been another tragedy, and the murderer is close at hand.  Come quietly and we may catch him!’

“He then retraced his steps to the centre of the room and listened.  Again there came the laugh—­subtle, protracted, hellish—­and it seemed to him as if it must originate in the room overhead.

“A noise in the direction of the hearth made him look round.  Some loose plaster had fallen, and whilst he still gazed, more fell.  The truth of the whole thing then dawned on him.  The murderer was in the chimney.