The Watertown weekly leader. [volume] (Watertown, Jefferson County, Wis.) 1912-1917, 1916-02-22

| dropped the garment in sheer surprise
to find it damp and heavy in his grasp,
sodden with viscid moisture. And
when, in swift fash of intuition. he
examined his fingers. he discovered
| thereon faint discoloration-a red
dish stain.
Then the shape of an object on the
| floor near his feet arrested Lanyards
| questioning vision. He stared, incred-
ulous, moved forward, bent over, and
picked it up, clipping it gingerly be-
tween his fingers.
1t was one of his razors-a heavy
hollow ground blade-and it was foul
with blood
With a low cry, suddenly smitten
with understanding, Lanyard wheeled
| and stared fearfully at the door com
municating with Roddy's room.
1t stood ajar, an inch or so, it's splin-
| tered lock accounted for by a small
but extremely efficient steel Jimmy
which lay ear the threshold.
Beyond the doOr-darkness-s silence.
Mastering all his courage. the ad-
adjoining room.
The first flash of his hand-lamp dis
| covered to him sickening justification
for his apprehensions.
After a moment he returned, shut
the door, and set his back against it,
as if to bar out that reeking shambles.
He was very pale, his face drawn
with horror, and he was shaken with
| nausea.
Now he knew why his dressing
gown had been requisitioned-to pro-
tect butchers clothing
The plot was damnably patent
Roddy, somehow menace to the
Pack, required elimination; not only
had his murder been decreed but that
the blame for it should be laid at Ian
yards door. Hence the attempt to
drug him that he might not escape be-
fore the police could be sent to find
him there.
Lanyard could no longer doubt that
De Morbihan had been left behind at
the Circle of Friends OF Harmony
solely to detain him, afford Smith time
to finish his hideous job and set the
trap for the second victim.
And the plot had succeeded despite
it's partial failure, despite the swift
reverse chance and Lanyard's cunning
had .meted out to the Packs agent
In was his dressing gown that was
saturated with Roddy's blood, just as
those were his gloves, pilfered from
his luggage. which had measurably
protected the killers hands, and which
Lanyard had found in the next room,
stripped hastily off and thrown to the
| floor, twin crumpled wads of blood
stained chamois skin.
He had now little choice; he must
either fee Paris and rely on his wits
to save him, or else seek De Morbihan
and trust to his protection, to his in
fuence in high quarters.
He must and would find another
way; but his decision was frightfully
hampered by lack Of ready money, the
few odd francs in his pocket were no
store for the war chest demanded by
this emergency.
True, he had the Omber jewels; but
they were not negotiable-not, at
least, in Paris
And the Huysman plans?
He pondered briefly the possibilities
Of the Huysman plans.
In his fretting, pacing softly to and
fro, at each turn he passed his dress
ing table and, CHANGING once to OBJ
serve himself in the mirror, he
stopped short, thunderstruck by some
thing he thought to detect in that
counterfeit presentment of his coun-
tenance, heavy with fatigue as it was,
and haggard with contemplation of
this appalling contretemps.
And instantly he was back beside
the American, studying narrowly the
contours of that livid mask. Here,
then, was that resemblance that had
baff1ed him; and now that he saw it
he could not. deny that it was unfat-
teringly close-feature for feature the
face of the murderer reproduced his
face; coarsened, perhaps, but recog-
nizably a replica of that Michael Ian
yard who confronted him every morn
ing in his shaving glass, almost the
only difference residing in the scrubby
black mustache that Swallowed the
Americans upper lip.
After all, nothing wonderful in this;
Lanyard's type was not uncommon;
he would never have thought himself
a distinguished figure.
Before rising he turned out the
pockets of this casual double. But
this profited him little-quite evident
ly the assassin had dressed for action
with forethought to evade recognition
in event of accident.
With this harvest of nothing for his
pains Lanyard turned again to the
washstand and his shaving kit, mixed
stiff lather, stropped another razor
to the finest edge he could manage,
fetched a pair of keen scissors from
his dressing case, and went back to
the murderer.
He worked rapidly, at high pitch
of excitement-as much through sheer
desperation as through any appeal in
herent in his scheme, either to his