McManus turned toward the man who approached from the window. He seemed to have recovered his composure, and a puzzling smile was on his lips. Then, suddenly, the hand came up, without leaving the pocket, which was lifted with it; there was a slight turn of the hand seen through the cloth and the muffled report of the pistol. McManus fell, shot through the heart by his own hand.
"A damned bungling piece of work, to let that be done," said Trafford. "There're steps on the stairs. Don't open the door for a minute."
He rushed into the bedroom, and seizing a tin box that stood on a stand by the bed, dropped it from the window into a dense mass of shrubbery that grew beneath. He was back in the room to answer the first knock at the door.
Millbank slept but little that night. The streets were thronged with people, and the story of the tragedy, the discovery of the murderer and his suicide, was repeated and re-repeated, with new details at every repetition. Before midnight it was surprising to know how many people had all along sus-
