John Siders had rented the rooms in which he met his death about ten days before, paying a month’s rent in advance.  The lodgings consisted of two rooms in a little house in a quiet street.  It was a street of simple two-story, one and two family dwellings, occupied by artisans and small tradespeople.  There were many open spaces, gardens and vacant lots in the street.  The house in which Siders lodged belonged to a travelling salesman by the name of Winter.  The man was away from home a great deal, and his wife, with her child and an old servant, lived in the lower part of the house, while the rooms occupied by Siders were in the upper story.  Siders lived very quietly, going out frequently in the afternoon, but returning early in the evening.  He had said to his landlady that he had many friends in G—.  But during the time of his stay in the house he had had but one caller, a gentleman who came on the evening of the 23rd of September.  The old maid had opened the door for him and showed him to Mr. Siders’ rooms.  She described this visitor as having a full black beard, and wearing a broad-brimmed grey felt hat.  Nobody saw the man go out, for the old maid, the only person in the house at the time, had retired early.  Mrs. Winter and her little girl were spending the night with the former’s mother in a distant part of the city.  The next morning the old servant, taking the lodger’s coffee up to him at the usual hour, found him dead on the floor of his sitting-room, shot through the heart.  The woman ran screaming from the house and alarmed the neighbours.  A policeman at the corner heard the noise, and led the crowd up to the room where the dead man lay.  It was plain to be seen that this was not a case of suicide.  Everywhere were signs of a terrible struggle.  The furniture was overturned, the dressing-table and the cupboard were open and their contents scattered on the floor, one of the window curtains was torn into strips, as if the victim had been trying to escape by way of the window, but had been dragged back into the room by his murderer.  An overturned ink bottle on the table had spattered wide, and added to the general confusion.  In the midst of the disorder lay the body of the murdered man, now cold in the rigour of death.

The police commissioner arrived soon, took possession of the rooms, and made a thorough examination of the premises.  A letter found on the desk gave another proof, if such were needed, that this was not a case of suicide.  This letter was in the handwriting of the dead man, and read as follows: 

Dear Friend: 

I appreciate greatly all the kindness shown me by yourself and your good wife.  I have been more successful than I thought possible in overcoming the obstacles you know of.  Therefore, I shall be very glad to join you day after to-morrow, Sunday, in the proposed excursion.  I will call for you at 8 A.M.—­the cab and the champagne will be my share of the trip.  We’ll have a jolly day and drink a glass or two to our plans for the future.