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couldn’t divulge. He was growing excited and rather incoherent. I didn’t press him, and he hung up.”
    “No one knew,” murmured Ellery. “Not even Lucy, Bill?”
    “That’s what he said.”
    “Well, it sure must have been important,” drawled De Jong, “because somebody shut his mouth tight before he could spill it. At that, he wasn’t telling the truth. Somebody did know about this house.”
    “I did, for one,” said Bill coldly. “I knew when I received the telegram. Is that what you’re driving at?”
    “Now, now, Bill,” said Ellery. “You’re naturally unstrung. By the way, you said that Wilson had visited your office in Philadelphia yesterday. Anything important?”
    “Perhaps, perhaps not. He left a bulky envelope in my keeping.”
    “What’s in it?” snapped De Jong.
    “I don’t know. It’s sealed, and he didn’t tell me.”
    “Well, for cripes sake, didn’t he say anything about it?”
    “Just that I was to keep it for him temporarily.”
    “Where is it now?”
    “In my safe,” said Bill grimly, “where it’s going to stay.”
    De Jong grunted. “I forgot you’re a lawyer. Well, Angell, we’ll see about that. Doc, is there any way of telling exactly when this man was knifed? We know he died at ten after nine. But when was the knife stuck into him?”
    The coroner shook his head. “I couldn’t say. Certainly not long before. The man must have held on to life with remarkable tenacity. I could hazard a guess—eight-thirty, perhaps. But don’t bank on it. Shall I send for the wagon?”
    “Yes. No,” said De Jong, showing his teeth. “No, we’ll keep him here for a while. I’ll call for the wagon when I want it. G o on home, Doc; you can do the autopsy for us in the morning. You’re sure it was the knife did the job?”
    “Positive. But if there was anything else, I’ll find it.”
    “Doctor,” said Ellery slowly. “Have you found—on the hands or anywhere else—any burns?”
    The old gentleman stared. “Burns? Burns? Certainly not!”
    “Would you mind keeping a weather-eye out for burns when you’re doing the autopsy? Particularly on the extremities.”
    “Damned fool thing. Very well, very well!” And in something of a huff the coroner stamped out.
    De Jong’s mouth was open, ready to ask a question, when a fat detective with a scarred mouth shambled up and engaged him in conversation. Bill strolled about in aimless fashion. After a while the detective waddled away. “Mess of fingerprints all over the place, my man says,” grunted De Jong, “but most of ’em seem to be Wilson’s… Now what are you doing on that rug, Mr. Queen? You look like a frog.”
    Ellery rose from his knees. He had been crawling about the room for the past few minutes scrutinizing the surface of the fawn rug as if his life depended upon it. Bill was planted by the main door, a peculiar glitter in his eye. “Oh, I revert to the animal once in a while,” smiled Ellery. “Does a body good. Remarkably clean rug, De Jong. Not a speck of mud or anything else anywhere on it.”
    De Jong looked puzzled. Ellery puffed placidly on his pipe and strolled toward the wooden clothes-rack on the wall. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his friend at the door. Bill looked down at his feet suddenly, grimaced, and stooped to fumble with the lace of his left shoe. It took him some time to get it tied to his complete satisfaction. When he rose his face was red from his exertions, and his right hand was buried in his pocket. Ellery sighed. He felt sure, as he glanced at the others, that they had not seen Bill pick up something from the one spot on the rug which he himself had not examined.
    De Jong strode out, flinging a glance of warning at his man Murphy. They heard him shouting orders on the wooden porch. Bill dropped into a chair and propped his elbow on his knee, staring down at the dead man with the oddest look of bitter inquiry.
    “I grow more and more fascinated by this extraordinary