I began in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder.  I found nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself, which added an iota to the knowledge already obtained.  That Mr. Hasbrouck had been in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise; and that he had been shot before reaching the door, were self-evident facts.  But there was nothing to guide me further.  The very simplicity of the circumstances caused a dearth of clues, which made the difficulty of procedure as great as any I had ever encountered.

My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and an investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was secured, assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front door, or had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up for the night.

“I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview,” I hereupon announced to the trembling old servant, who had followed me like a dog about the house.

He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the presence of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large chamber in the rear.  As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I encountered a good, plain face, without the shadow of guile in it.

“Madam,” said I, “I have not come to disturb you.  I will ask two or three questions only, and then leave you to your grief.  I am told that some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal shot.  Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they were?”

“I was sound asleep,” said she, “and dreamt, as I thought, that a fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one:  ’Ah! you did not expect me!’ But I dare not say that these words were really uttered to my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a man in the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in such a tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot which woke me.”

“But that shot was not the work of a friend,” I argued.  “If, as these words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than plunder in his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never suspected it.”

“Impossible!” was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing tone.  “The man who shot him was a common burglar, and frightened at having been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty.  I am sure I heard him cry out in terror and remorse:  ‘God! what have I done!’”

“Was that before you left the side of the bed?”

“Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close.  I was paralysed by fear and dread.”

“Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock only in the fastening of your front door at night?  I am told that the big key was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of the door was not drawn.”

“The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn.  Mr. Hasbrouck was so good a man that he never mistrusted any one.  That is why the big lock was not fastened.  The key, not working well, he took it some days ago to the locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it, he laughed, and said he thought no one would ever think of meddling with his front door.”