had failed to get away.  This discovery added to my anxiety, and my anger.  He should not get away—­not if I could prevent it—­until he confessed to her the truth.  I ran back into the ell, fearful now that he had escaped through a window, yet determined to examine that last room.  There was a rag carpet along the back hall, and, in the semi-darkness, I tripped, falling heavily forward, striking the floor with a crash, my revolver flying from my hand, and hitting the side wall.  I was on my knees in an instant, thoughtless of everything except that I had come into contact with a body.  The shock numbed me, nor could my fingers alone solve the mystery.  I sprang erect, and threw open the nearest side door, permitting the light to stream in.  Then I saw the man’s face, upturned, lifeless—­the face of Gerald Le Gaire.  It seemed to me I could not move, could not even breathe, as I stared down at the motionless form.  Then I touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse which had ceased to beat.  A noise at my back caused me to start, and glance behind.  Billie stood at the end of the narrow hall.

“What is it?  Have—­have you killed him?”

I whirled, facing her, indignant at the words, and yet understanding as swiftly the reason for her suspicions.

“It is Captain Le Gaire.  I have just found him lying here.”

“Found him!  Yes, but not lying there; I heard the noise, the fall of his body.  Is—­is he dead?”

She stood grasping the stair-rail, shrinking back from closer approach, her white face horror-stricken.  I drew a quick breath, fairly quivering under the sting of her words.

“Yes, he is dead, Miss Hardy,” I said, knowing I must end the suspense, “but not by my hand.  I tripped and fell in the darkness, causing the noise you heard.  I am going to ask you to return to your room; you can be of no service here.  I will have your father and Captain Bell help me with the body.”

She never moved, her eyes on my face.

“Then—­then will you permit my father to come to me?”

“Certainly—­perhaps we will know then how this occurred.”

“Is that your revolver lying there?”

I had forgotten the weapon, but perceived it now, on the floor just beyond Le Gaire’s head.

“Yes, it was dropped when I fell,” I took a step toward her.  “You will go back, will you not?”

She seemed to shrink from my approach, and moved backward, still facing me, until she came to her own door.  There she remained a moment, clinging to the knob, but as I emerged into the full light of the front hall, she stepped into the room, and closed the door.  Some way, her action hurt me worse than any words could have done, yet I walked past to the stairs in silence, and called to the guard below.

Miles came up with the two Confederates, and a dozen words of explanation sufficed.  Together we picked up the body, bore it into a near-by room, and placed it upon the bed.  The man had been struck back of the ear, apparently by the butt of a revolver or the stock of a gun, the skull crushed.  Death had been instantaneous; possibly he never knew what hit him.  We examined the wound, and then looked into each others’ faces utterly unable to account for the condition.