Detective Brasher was cordial to the visitors. He had been notified of their coming.

He led the way to the room on the third floor where the body had been found that morning.

"Nothin' to it, Professor," said Brasher, "nothin' to it. Mr.

Miller used this room to write and read in and the next room for sleeping. You see it is a sort of suite, with a bath room and everything.

"This room is just as we found it this mornin' when we broke in.

Mr. Miller was lyin' on the couch there, the bed in the next room is made up like the maid left it; it hadn't been slept in. He was lyin' on his back with a hole in his temple--oh, you saw that. All right.

"Well, his arm hung down over the edge of the couch, and the revolver was on the floor where he dropped it. There was his finger marks on it all right and no one else's. The gun is there,"

pointing to a table, among miscellaneous odds and ends, "and n.o.body touched it. The door was locked from inside and so was the window of the bedroom. They tell me he always slept with the door and window locked."

"How did he get air during the night?" asked McCall.

"Through that." Brasher was standing on the threshold separating both rooms and was pointing to the porthole in which was fixed a circular fan. Brasher continued:

"We came here about eight o'clock, or mebbe a quarter after. Mr.

Miller used to get up very early. When he wasn't down for breakfast this mornin' and the people down stairs knowin' he had an appointment with Judge Higginbotham, they came up and called.

When there was no answer to their callin' and knockin' they called us up.

"Me and another man from headquarters, we broke the door open and we found him like I tell you. Doc Simpson says he was dead about five or six hours when we found him. That makes it about three o'clock when he kills himself. You see the servants had all gone after dinner; gone to a movie. A shot fired in this room couldn't be heard down stairs. I tried it.

"No, there's nothin' to it, Professor. It's a dead open and shut case. Mr. Miller committed suicide, don't need any scientific sharps to tell that."

Professor Brierly nodded absently. He was gazing about the room.

Then he walked to the library table, on which lay the revolver. He stooped over it and turned to the detective.

"May I examine this weapon, Mr. Brasher?"

"Sure, help yourself."

"It is certain, Mr. Brasher, that there are no finger prints on this weapon other than those of Mr. Miller?"

"That's certain. Our finger print man hasn't had the experience of the big city men, but he's a good man, just the same, and knows what he's talkin' about."

"And he said what, about the finger prints?"

"He said that there were Mr. Miller's finger prints all over the gun, that part of Mr. Miller's thumb print, his right thumb was on the trigger, showin' that that's the way he must have pulled the trigger, with his thumb, understand?"

"We will take this for granted, Mr. Brasher. Now, did any one disturb the barrel of the weapon, remove the sh.e.l.ls or--"

"No, Professor, nothin' like that was done, the gun is there just as we found it. We know a little about guns but we ain't expert, get me, and we thought we'd leave it till--"

Professor Brierly was not listening. He gingerly picked up the weapon from the table, using his handkerchief, and removed the cylinder, which held one empty sh.e.l.l and five loaded ones.

With a deftness and a certainty of movement, remarkable in a man of his age, he removed one of the bullets from a sh.e.l.l, using his knife for the purpose. He first examined the bullet and compared it with one he took from his vest pocket. Then he spilled the powder into the palm of his hand, examined and sniffed that. He looked up.

Brasher was beginning to show a little impatience. He said:

"Like I said, there's nothin' to it, Professor, nothin' at all.

Miller committed suicide."

Professor Brierly shook his head gently.

"I am afraid you are wrong, Mr. Brasher. There is a great deal to it. One thing, seems certain. If Mr. Miller killed himself, it is reasonably certain that it was an accident; that he did not intend to do so. And, off hand, although I am not p.r.o.ne to giving snap judgment, I should say that the chances are enormously against his either having shot himself by accident or design."

"But, Professor, there was Mr. Miller on the couch, his gun near his hand, where he dropped it. The door and window were locked, not only locked, but bolted, from inside; Mr. Miller was a very suspicious man; that's why he built this tower.

"In addition to this, he had a burglar alarm on the door, he didn't need one on the window.

If you look out the window in the next room you'll see that it would take a bird, or anyhow, something that can fly, to get at it. A monkey couldn't get at the window, to say nothing of getting in.

"When we came this morning, the door was bolted and the alarm was on. The window was as you see it, bolted from inside. As for that ventilating thing, a baby couldn't get in. There were powder marks around the bullet hole. So, how--"

Professor Brierly was not listening. He walked into the bedroom, followed by the others. He examined the walls and floors. He went to the window, submitting each pane to a careful scrutiny. He looked carefully at the sill. Then he went to the door, with its jagged scars showing from the recent a.s.sault upon it by the police. He returned once more to the window. He opened it--it swung outward on a hinge--and looked out a long time.

When he withdrew his head from his long scrutiny, even Matthews, who knew him best, could not tell from his demeanor if he had what he was seeking. For that matter, Matthews was completely in the dark as to what his mentor and foster father was looking for.

Professor Brierly turned to Brasher, who had followed him into the room and was following his movements with cynical amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Who takes care of these rooms, Mr. Brasher; I mean who cleans them?"

"I don't know, but there's a sort of housekeeper. I'll get her up here."

"Do so, please."

A thin, middle-aged woman, dressed in somber black, appeared. She looked from one to the other of the group of men. There was no emotion visible on her thin features, except for a tinge of defiance. She was introduced as Mrs. Horsnall.

"Mrs. Horsnall," asked Professor Brierly, "who cleans these rooms?"

"The maid, Ella."

"When did she clean these rooms last?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Are you sure she cleaned them properly?"

"She did that, or she would have heard from me. I looked at the rooms myself after she was through. I always look after the work of the help around here."

No one present doubted that she did a thorough job of looking after things.

"Have any repairs been done in these rooms recently, Mrs.

Horsnall?"

"Repairs, how do you mean?"

"Well, such things as locks, hinges, lights, windows, and so forth."