He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of excellent material.

He had been shot in the back of the head.
It was murder then--murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy exactly as it must have occurred--the open window, the overturned chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story.

Just what was the fellow doing here alone at that hour?
Why should he have been killed?
Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted darkness.

A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and across the man's body.

With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I stole across the floor, and glanced out.