Britz recovered gradually from his astonishment.

Advancing to the couch he examined the lifeless form of the woman, noting that the shot which killed her had entered the mouth and probably penetrated to the base of the skull.

A small pearl-handled revolver gleamed ominously from the floor, about seven or eight feet from the lounge.

Britz picked it up, examined it, then deposited it on a convenient table.
As the detective moved about the apartment, his activity seemed to arouse the others from the half-stupefied state into which they had lapsed.

Beard, who had remained standing as if petrified by the tragic turn of events, suddenly regained his faculties and gazed apprehensively at the officers.
With studied deliberation Britz disregarded his presence in the room and continued to busy himself with an examination of the contents of a small writing table that stood in an angle of the wall.
Evidently drawing courage from Britz's preoccupation and from the bewildered inactivity of the other officers, Beard bent forward until his hand touched the floor, and, after groping for an instant beneath the head of the couch, again drew himself to an erect posture.
"I'll take that paper!" Britz's voice broke the silence.
A tremor shook Beard's frame, while the blood drained from his face.
Then, a rebellious impulse against the detective's calm assertion of authority possessing him, he made a bold effort to destroy the paper he had picked off the floor.
But Britz was prepared to anticipate the move.