The Last Stroke. Lawrence L. Lynch

for me. The evening paper, however, gave me—or so I fancy—a hint of the business. Is it the young schoolmaster?"

      The doctor started. It seemed impossible that the news had already found its way into print.

      "Some one has made haste," he said, scornfully.

      "Some one always does in these cases, and the Journal has a 'special correspondent' in every town and village in the country almost. It was only a few lines." He glanced askance at his companion as he spoke. "And it was reported an accident or suicide."

      "It was a murder!"

      "I thought so."

      "You—why?"

      "'The victim was found,' so says the paper, 'face downward, or nearly so.' 'Fallen forward,' those were the words. Was that the case?"

      "Yes."

      "Well, did you ever see or hear of a suicide who had fallen directly forward and face downward, supposing him to have shot himself?"

      "No, no."

      "On the other hand, have you ever noted that a man taken unawares, shot from the side, or rear, falls forward? If shot standing, that is. It is only when he receives a face charge that he falls backward."

      "I had not thought of that, and yet it looks simple and rational enough," and then, while they walked down the quiet street running parallel with Main, and upon which Mrs. Marcy's cottage stood, the doctor told the story of the morning, briefly but clearly, adding, at the end, "In telling this much, I am telling you actually all that I know."

      "All—concerning Miss Grant, too?"

      "Everything."

      The doctor did not lift his eyes from the path before them, and again the detective shot a side glance from the corner of his eye, and the shadow of a smile crossed his face.

      "How does it happen that this brother is here so—I was about to say—opportunely?"

      "He told me that he came by appointment, but on an earlier train than he had at first intended to take, to pass Sunday with his brother."

      "Now see," mused Ferrars, "what little things, done or left undone, shape or shorten our lives! If he had telegraphed to his brother announcing his earlier arrival, there would have been no target practice, but a walk to the station instead."

      The doctor sighed, and for a few moments walked on in silence. Then, as they neared the cottage he almost stopped short and turned toward the detective.

      "I'm afraid you will think me a sad bungler, Ferrars. I should have told you at once that Robert Brierly awaits us at Mrs. Marcy's cottage."

      "Robert Brierly? Is that his name? I wonder if he can be the Robert Brierly who has helped to make one of our morning papers so bright and breezy. A rising young journalist, in fact. But it's probably another of the name."