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“I am the lady of the house, Mr. Crow,” said the lady, performing a graceful Delsartian movement with her long bare arms. Mr. Crow and his companions stared upward at her arms as if fascinated. “I am Mrs. Smith–Mrs. John Smith.”

“I guess not,” said Anderson sharply. “She wears a veil, asleep an’ awake. Hold on! Put your hands down! She’s signalin’ somebody, sure as you’re alive,” he burst out, turning to the group of mouth-sagging, eye-roving gentlemen who followed every graceful curve and twist of those ivory arms. “What’s the matter with you, Sim? Didn’t I order you to go in there an’ grab that bloody assassin? What–“

“Not on your life! He’s got a gun,” exclaimed Sim Jackson. “S’pose I’m goin’ in there, an’–Oh, fer gosh sake!”

A man appeared in the door leading to the interior of the house.

“For the love o’ Mike!” issued from the lips of the newcomer. “What in thunder–what’s all this?”

It was Harry Squires.

He gazed open-mouthed, first at the beautiful, convulsed lady, and then at the huddled group of men.

“We are caught red-handed, Mr. Squires,” said the beautiful lady. “Shall we go to the electric chair hand in hand?”

A slow grin began to reach out from the corners of Harry’s mouth as if its intention was to connect with his ears.

“My God, Harry–you ain’t mixed up in this murder?” bleated Anderson.

The old man’s dismay was so genuine, his distress so pitiful, that the heart of Harry Squires was touched. His face sobered at once. Stepping forward, he held out his hand to the Marshal.

“Good old Anderson! It’s all right. Buck up, old top! I’m sorry to say that blood has been shed here tonight. Come with me; I’ll show you the corpse.”

Mr. Crow was not to be caught napping. “Some of you fellers stay here an’ guard this woman. Don’t let her get away.”

* * * * *

A few minutes later he stood beside Harry Squires in the cellar below the kitchen. There was a smell of gunpowder on the close, still air. They looked down upon the black, inanimate form of the French poodle.

“There, Mr. Hawkshaw,” said Harry, “there lies all that is mortal of the finest little gentleman that ever wore a collar. Take off your hat, Sim–and you too, Bill–all of you. You are standing in the presence of death. Behold in me the assassin. I am the slayer of yon grisly corpse. Shackle me, Mr. Marshal. Lead me to the gallows. I am the guilty party.”

Marshal Crow took off his hat with the rest–but he did it the better to mop his forehead.

“Do you mean to tell me there ain’t been any man slew in this house?” he inquired slowly.

“Up to the hour of going to press,” said the city editor of the Banner, “no human remains have been unearthed.”

“Then, where in thunder is the feller who’s been foolin’ around Mrs. Smith’s front yard, the–“

“Last I saw of him he was beating it down the street about two hours ago, and you were giving him the run of his life. I don’t believe the rascal will ever dare come around here again. The chances are he’s still running.”

The Marshal muttered something under his breath, and shot a pleading look at Harry.

“Yes, sir,” continued Harry solemnly, “I’ll bet my head he’ll never be seen in these parts again.”

“If he hadn’t got such a start of me,” said Anderson, regaining much of his aplomb, “I’d ‘a nabbed him, sure as you’re alive. He could run like a whitehead. I never seen such–“

“Shall we go upstairs, gentlemen, and relieve the pressure on Miss Hildebrand? She is, I may say, the principal mourner, poor lady.”

“Miss Who?”

“Gentlemen, the lady up there is no other than the celebrated actress, Juliet Hildebrand. The Veiled Lady and she are one and the same. Before we retire from this spot, let me explain that Mr. Snooks, the deceased, was run over by her automobile an hour or so ago. His back was broken. I merely put an end to his suffering. Now come–“