ASLIGHT sound behind him caused Douglas to wheel swiftly around. A pretty woman, with written largely in her round eyes, stood regarding the two men. She was carrying a handbag.  
“Whom do you wish to see?” asked Brett sharply.
 
“No one, Monsieur,” replied Annette, her accent denoting her nationality. “I am Miss Thornton’s maid.”
 
Douglas started. “Eleanor—Miss Thornton!” Was it possible that she could mean the Eleanor Thornton he used to know?
 
“I am taking her bag to her room as she is spending the night here,” added the servant.
 
“Indeed.” Brett inspected her keenly. “When did Miss Thornton enter the house?”
 
“A few minutes ago, Monsieur,” . “Joshua showed Mademoiselle in while I stopped a moment to speak with the , and he left the front door open so that I could enter.”
 
At that moment the butler appeared from the dining room carrying a tray on which were glasses and a of ice water.
 
“Joshua, is this Miss Thornton’s maid?” asked Brett.
 
“Yessir,” Joshua ducked his head respectfully as he answered the detective. “Annette, Miss Eleanor done hab her same room next do’ ter Miss Cynthia’s. Yo’ take her things right upstairs, and tell Miss Eleanor I done got der ice water fo’ her.”
 
With a half curtsey Annette stepped past the two men, and ran quickly up the staircase.
 
“Stop a moment, Joshua,” ordered Brett, as the butler started to follow the maid. “Who opened the door into the library a few moments ago?”
 
“’Deed I dunno, suh; I been so busy takin’ in cyards I ain’t noticed particular.”
 
“Who has been in the hall besides yourself?” persisted Brett.
 
“Ain’t no one,” began Joshua, then paused. “Now I do dat Marse Philip cum in right smart time ergo, suh. He axed fo’ yo’, and I tole him yo’ was in de lib’ary. I ’specks he mighter been alookin’ fo’ yo’.”
 
“Ah, indeed; where is Mr. Winthrop now?”
 
“Ah dunno, suh.”
 
“Well, find him, Joshua, and tell him I wish to see him—at once.” Brett’s pleasant voice had deepened, and Joshua blinked .
 
“Yessir, I’ll tell him, suh, ’deed ah will,” he , as he started upstairs.
 
As Douglas and Brett walked across the hall to enter the library a man stepped out of the drawing-room.
 
“Are you looking for me, Mr. Brett?”
 
The question was asked enough, and Douglas was the more astonished to encounter a hostile stare as the newcomer glanced at him.
 
“I hope you can give me a few minutes of your time,” said Brett; “will you be so good as to step into the library?” and he stood aside to allow Philip Winthrop to enter first. Douglas followed them into the room and locked the door. As the key clicked slightly Winthrop frowned, and his pale face flushed.
 
“That is only a precaution against eavesdroppers,” explained Douglas quickly.
 
“Mr. Winthrop, this is Mr. Douglas Hunter, who is assisting me in my efforts to the mystery surrounding Senator Carew’s death, and with your permission will be present at this interview.“
 
“Why, certainly,” exclaimed Winthrop, with well simulated ; “won’t you both sit down?” and he dropped into the desk chair. Douglas picked out his old seat in the window and turned his back to the light the better to face Winthrop and Brett, who also sat near the desk.
 
“When will they hold the inquest, Mr. Brett?” questioned Winthrop.
 
“The coroner, Dr. Penfield, told me to-morrow.”
 
“Has Hamilton a lawyer to look out for his interests?”
 
“That’s not absolutely necessary at the inquest, Mr. Winthrop. At present the negro is simply held on suspicion. If the inquest so decides, he will be charged with the murder and held for the grand jury.”
 
Douglas had been busy scanning Winthrop’s face intently. He the heavy lines in the handsome face, and the brilliancy of his eyes. It was apparent to both men, by Winthrop’s thick speech and unsteady hands, which kept fingering the desk nervously, that he had been drinking heavily.
 
“Where did you last see Senator Carew?”
 
“In this room yesterday afternoon.”
 
“Did you see him alone, or were others present?”
 
“He was alone.”
 
“Did he show you a letter which he was then writing?” inquired Douglas at a venture, and was startled at the effect of his question on Winthrop. The latter whitened perceptibly, and pulled his short black mustache to hide his lips.
 
“I know nothing about any letter,” he .
 
Brett did not press the point, but asked instead: “Where did you spend last night?”
 
“I dined here with my mother and cousin.”
 
“And afterwards?” put in Douglas.
 
“I went to the Club soon after dinner.”
 
“How late did you stay there?”
 
“Most of the night,” was the evasive reply.
 
“Please mention the exact hour you left the club,” persisted Brett.
 
“I really cannot recollect the exact time; I did not reach this house until after two this morning. We had a pretty gay time at the club, and I was in no condition to remember the hour,” and he smiled deprecatingly.
 
Again Brett did not press the question. He turned over the pages of his small book in which he had been making entries.
 
 
“Have you any idea where Senator Carew dined and spent the evening?”
 
“No,” came the answer. “He asked me to tell my mother not to expect him at dinner, that was all.”
 
“Ah, indeed. Have you any idea when the Senator left the house?”
 
“No, I left him here, and went up to my room, where I stayed until dinner was announced.”
 
“Where is your room?”
 
“Third floor, back.”
 
“Who has rooms on the next floor?”
 
“Senator Carew’s bedroom, bath, and are over this part of the house; Miss Cynthia Carew occupies the of rooms across the hall from his rooms. My mother and I have the third floor to ourselves.” Winthrop plucked nervously at the desk pad. “Talking is dry work; won’t you and Mr. Hunter join me, I’ll ring for Joshua.”
 
“One moment,” Brett’s tone was and, with an unmistakable , Winthrop sank down in his chair and leaned heavily on the desk. “What members of the family were in the house yesterday afternoon?”
 
Winthrop thought for a moment before replying. “No one but my uncle and myself,” he said reluctantly. “My mother and Miss Carew went out early to some bridge party, and did not return until just before dinner.”
 
“I see.” Brett leaned back in his chair and Winthrop thoughtfully.
 
“Mr. Winthrop,” asked Douglas, breaking the short silence, “were you and your uncle always on good terms?”
 
“Why, yes.” Winthrop’s twitching fingers closed unconsciously on the slender desk file, and as he his shifting eyes dropped from Douglas’ clear gaze, and fell on the sharp steel desk in his hand. With a convulsive he dropped it and sprang to his feet. “What’s all this questioning about?” he demanded loudly. “I’ve had enough of this, you——” his hands , and the blood flamed his pale face, a gurgle choked his , and before Brett could reach him he fell across the desk.