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was five minutes of midnight. “He’s damn’ cocksure of himself,” he muttered.
    John Hume shook his head impatiently and went to the door. “Get that fellow Carmichael in here.”
    â€œWho’s Carmichael?”
    â€œSenator Fawcett’s secretary. Kenyon says he has a lot of valuable testimony for us. Well, we’ll know in a moment.”
    â€œFind any prints, Kenyon?” growled father, bestowing a look of Olympian contempt upon the chief of police.
    Kenyon started; he had been picking his teeth with an ivory gadget, eyes abstracted. He took the toothpick out of his mouth, scowled, and said to one of his men: “Find any prints?”
    The man shook his head. “Not of an outsider. Plenty of the Senator’s, and of Carmichael’s. Whoever pulled this job must ‘a’ read detective stories. He wore gloves.”
    â€œHe wore gloves,” said Kenyon, and put the toothpick back into his mouth.
    John Hume, at the door, snapped: “Hurry that man up, will you?” and father shrugged and lit a cigar. I could see that he was disgusted with the whole affair.
    I felt a hard edge nudge the backs of my thighs, and turned quickly. It was Jeremy Clay, smiling, with a chair.
    â€œSquat, Sherlocka,” he said. “If you insist on parking here, you may as well do your heavy thinking off those beautiful little feet of yours.”
    â€œPlease!” I said angrily, in a half-whisper. This was scarcely the place for levity. He grinned and forced me into the chair. No one paid the least attention to us. So with a little feeling of helplessness I resigned myself … and then I caught a glimpse of father’s face.
    He was holding the cigar two inches from his lips, and staring at the doorway.

3. THE BLACK BOX
    A man had halted in the doorway and was looking at the desk. There was surprise on his lean face as his brain registered the emptiness of the chair. Then his gaze shifted and met the district attorney’s. He smiled sadly, nodded, and advanced into the room to stand in the middle of the rug, quite motionless, at perfect ease. He was no taller than myself, compactly built, and gave the impression subtly of an animal co-ordination of muscles. There was something oddly unsecretary-like in his bearing and figure. He might have been forty, although he possessed a certain air of agelessness which was baffling.
    I looked at father again. The cigar had not advanced an inch toward his lips. He was scrutinizing the newcomer with the most honest amazement.
    And the dead man’s secretary was looking at father, too. But intent as I was, on the alert for the slightest sign of recognition, I could detect not even the merest flicker in his bold eyes. His glance moved on and rested upon me. I thought then that he betrayed a mild astonishment, but no more than any man in his present position might betray at sight of a woman in these grim surroundings.
    My eyes went back to father again. The cigar was between his teeth, he was smoking placidly, and his face was expressionless once more. No one seemed to have noticed his brief stupefaction. But that he had recognized this man Carmichael I knew; and, although Carmichael had not responded by any outward sign, I was also certain that he too had suffered a split-second shock. An individual with such consummate self-control, I reflected, would bear watching.
    â€œCarmichael,” said John Hume abruptly, “Chief Kenyon says you have something important to tell us.”
    The secretary’s eyebrows went up slightly. “It depends upon what you mean by ‘important,’ Mr. Hume. Of course, I found the body——”
    â€œYes, yes.” The district attorney’s tone was cosmically impersonal. Senator Fawcett’s secretary.… I fancied I grasped the nuances. “Tell us what happened tonight.”
    â€œAfter dinner this evening the Senator called his three servants—the cook,