But the white rays of the electric globe, hanging in a shade of rose colour directly overhead, fell with sinister distinctness on the slender figure of the young wife, lying in a huddled heap on the bed, her fashionable rest gown stained with blood, which oozed from her breast in a sluggish stream on the satin quilt.

A sharp, pungent odour was mingled with the heavy atmosphere of the room--the smell of a burning fabric.

There was no disorder, no weapon, no indication of a struggle.

Only the motionless, bleeding figure on the bed revealed to the guests clustering outside the room that somebody had entered and departed as silently as a tiger.
Musard went swiftly to the bedside and bent over the girl.
"She has been shot," he said, in a tone which was little more than a whisper.
"She has been murdered!" It was Phil, pressing close behind Musard, who uttered these words.

"Murdered!" he cried, in an unnatural voice, which was dreadful to hear.