come here! For there's the house," he pointed. And Trant, not making any answer, leaped out as the car was slowing, and left him.
The big old Michigan avenue dwelling, Trant saw at a glance, was in disrepair; but from inattention, the psychologist guessed, not from lack of money. The maid who opened the door was a slattern. The hall, with its mingled aroma of dust and cooking, spoke eloquently of the indifference of the house's chief occupant; and the musty front room, with its coin cases and curios, was as unlike the great light and airy "den" where Stephen Sheppard hung his guns and skins and antlers, as the man whom Trant rose to greet was unlike his friend, the hale and ruddy old sportsman.
As Trant looked over this man, whose great height—six feet four or five inches—was reduced at least three inches by the studious stoop of his shoulders; as he took note of his worn and careless clothing and his feet forced into bulging slippers; as he saw the parchment skin, and met the eyes, so light in color that the iris could scarcely be detected from the whites, like the unpainted eyes of a statue, he appreciated the surprise that Findlay's former partners, Sheppard and Chapin, had experienced at the suggestion that this might be the murderer.
"I shall ask only a little of your time, Mr. Findlay," Trant put his hand into his pocket for his coins, as though the proffered hand of the other had been extended for them. "I have come to ask your estimate, as an expert, upon a few coins which I have recently picked up. I have been informed that you can better advise me as to their value than any other col-
