"It can't be done," they declared. "There is bound to be a recoil, and there will be ugly powder burns, no matter how close you press the muzzle."

"Can you muffle the noise by holding the revolver close?"

"Why, I suppose you can muffle it a little," assented one. "But see here, young fellow, if you're planning to kill yourself I can show you a way that won't hurt at all, and won't leave a sign to show what happened to you. You'd make a beautiful corpse."

"Thanks," said Wyatt. "I don't care to shuffle off just yet.

"Helen Hume wasn't killed in a love quarrel," he told his city editor, "for she had no sweethearts. The theory that she was shot by burglars is silly. I don't think Dr. Burns killed her, but there are some peculiar things about this case that make me suspicious. One is that neither the doctor nor his wife heard the shot, although he admits that the door was open into the office when he passed by with Mr. and Mrs. Locke. And then his preventing me from seeing Mrs. Burns set me wondering. Maybe she is really sick, but her husband gives me the impression that he just doesn't want anybody to question her."

The coroner's jury, when it finally sat on the case, refused to turn in a verdict of suicide, despite the police report. The jury found that Helen Hume came to her death "as the result of a shot from a revolver, fired by person or persons unknown," and recommended that the police investigate further to find out

who fired the fatal shot.

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Wyatt's convictions concerned the murder and not the murderer. As to who the slayer was he harbored only vague suspicions, which he could satisfy only by examining the physician's house. This the physician forbade. So Wyatt put the girl's death out of his mind as one of the unexplained murder mysteries which often crop up to puzzle reporters.

"Do you think you can find out who killed that Hume girl, if I let you work on that alone for two or three days?" demanded the city editor, several days after the coroner's jury turned in its verdict.

"I might. I'd like to try," Wyatt answered.

He boarded a street car and went at once to Helen's father.

"Mr. Hume," he said, "I want to ask you frankly, have you any suspicions as to who murdered Helen?"

"I think Dr. Burns did it," Hume replied. "I don't know who else could have done it. Somebody did it."

"What kind of a woman is Dr. Burns' wife?"

"Why, she seems to be a nice little woman. But you surely don't suspect her? I might think her husband did it, but not Mrs. Burns."

A few minutes later, Wyatt tiptoed softly up the doctor's front steps and tried the door, but found it locked. He could see a light in the parlor, and a newspaper, behind which he surmised Dr. Burns was sitting. Then the telephone bell rang, and Dr. Burns got up to answer it.

Wyatt silently withdrew into the shadow. The doctor came out, carrying his case in his hand. Wyatt slunk around to the rear door. This was unlocked, and he entered the house without knocking.

There was a back stairway leading down to the doctor's office, as Wyatt had supposed. He turned the doorknob and entered, closing the door behind him. Then he opened the door from the office into the waiting room, and the

The

door from there into the vestibule. front stairway was in plain view from the office.

Did some strange acoustic vacuum intervene between him and the front stairs, so that a shot fired in the office could not be heard upstairs? This question was almost immediately answered for him by the voice of the doctor's wife calling from upstairs. Lightly though he had moved, yet she had heard him.

"Robert," she called down. "I thought you had gone out."

A minute of silence ensued. "Robert," she called again. "I wish you would come up to me."

He returned no answer. Presently he heard her coming up the back stairs. He slunk behind the office door.

"Robert," she called again. are you?"

"Where

She entered the office and switched on the lights. She gave a little shriek when she saw Wyatt, and she stood in the middle of the floor in her nightgown, opening and closing her mouth, as if she wanted to speak. Her face was white, and Wyatt observed also that she was thin, that her eyes bore a haunted, scared look, that her face was drawn and careworn, although she was still a young woman.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she finally found voice to ask.

Wyatt closed the door.

"I want to know why you killed Helen Hume."

Mrs. Burns put her hands to her head as if in pain, and stood for more than a minute silently rocking back and forth on her heels. Then her strength left her, and she would have fallen if Wyatt had not caught her. He helped her to a chair, and brought a glass of cold water, which he held to her lips.

"Who are you? And why do you come here to torture me?" she exclaimed indignantly, pushing away the glass.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Burns asked again.

"My name is Wyatt. I am an old friend of Helen Hume. Why did you kill her?"

"What right have you to enter my house this way, without warrant and without invitation?"

"In cases of this kind, Mrs. Burns, one does not wait for invitation- Helen Hume was standing over here when you shot, wasn't she? And then you fled up the back stairs while your husabnd faced the police, while he shielded you and kept you from being interviewed, and invented a suicide story that can't hold water. Why did you kill Helen Hume?"

"Mr. Wyatt, leave my house this instant. Such affrontry is unpardonable. The girl killed herself."

"Did you see her do it?"

"No. I was just going upstairs when I heard the shot."

"You HEARD the shot?"

"No, no, no! I don't mean that. There wasn't any shot. didn't HEAR the shot, I mean."

"Then you were NOT upstairs sick in bed. You were down here."

"I wasn't down here, I tell you! I was going up the stairway when she shot herself."

"That is enough, Mrs. Burns. Your husband said that you were both upstairs, and that you were in bed. But you tell me that you were on the back staircase. Your husband says that neither of you heard the shot. You tell me that you heard the shot, and then, remembering that your husband's story was different, you deny that you heard it. You say that you were there on the stairs and knew when it happened, but your husband pretended that he discovered the body when he came through the hall with Mr. and Mrs. Locke. As a matter of fact, your husband left the corpse of the girl to answer the door bell. He led his visitors through the hall, and then, when they saw the body lying in a pool of blood in his office, he pretended that he was seeing it for the first time.

Mrs. Burns, I am a reporter. If I print the statements you have just made, flatly contradicting your husband, he will be arrested. The police will naturally suppose that he was the girl's murderer. Otherwise why should he lie and pretend that he had not heard the shot, and knew nothing about her death?"

"You say my husband would be suspected?" the doctor's wife asked, her eyes big with fear.

"He will be convicted. He is already suspected, because of his fishy story about not hearing the shot when all doors were open between him and the office where Helen was killed. The fact that he perjured himself will execute him. Many men have been sent to the chair on less evidence."

"You won't do it! You shan't do it! You mustn't drag my husband into this! I swear to you that he had absolutely nothing to do with the shooting! murder will lie on your soul if you bring this unjust suspicion on him!"

His

"I am only after facts, Mrs. Burns. If your husband is innocent, why does he conceal the facts? It is because he is protecting you. You were jealous of Helen Hume. You thought your husband was too fond of her, and so you shot her. Isn't that so? You will do him a still greater wrong by keeping silent now. I can't vouch for his fate if you still refuse to tell me why you killed Helen Hume."

I

"I didn't shoot her deliberately! didn't, I swear I didn't! I am not a murderess! I was out of my head, but even so I didn't intend to kill her. I was arguing with her, and trying to scare her with the revolver. I didn't even know it was loaded. Don't, please don't print anything, Mr. Wyatt! It was purely an accident! Enough unhappiness has been caused already, without adding this."

Wyatt heard a noise, and, turning, he

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saw Dr. Burns standing in the doorway. "You're in mighty fine business!" the young physician exclaimed, shaking with wrath. "Mighty fine business, breaking into a house to make a sick woman confess to something that isn't true! What are you going to do?"

"That deepnds on you and your wife," answered the reporter. "I want to know all the details."

"There are no details," replied the physician. "My wife and I were happy, until this tragedy happened. My wife has been very ill. She was not responsible for the shooting, for she was delirious when it occurred. You can't get a conviction on the evidence you have, but the publication of a story such as you want to print would ruin our lives. There was an unnatural situation here -a beautiful girl, just developing into womanhood, living on terms of intimacy with a young married couple. The intimacy was nothing more than a strong friendship, but at that it was an unnatural situation to have her living in the same house. My wife's illness made her supersensitive, supersuspicious. And she was out of her head when poor Helen was shot.

"There is nothing more to tell. But consider this-the coroner's inquest is over, and unless you revive the matter the police will make no further investigation, and it will soon be forgotten except by us. You hold our happiness in your hands."

"What success did you have?" the city editor demanded when Wyatt showed up in the local room next day. "Did you find the murderer?"

"I have talked with the doctor's wife," Wyatt answered. "She was my last clue, and I have followed it out as far as I can. Please give me another assignment."

MAJTE

LETTER from Charlotte just

A as we were starting up to the

lines. Letters are wonderful things. They make us dream of the past and put a new spirit into the future. The many mornings we have strolled along through the bois, under the great, tall trees which swayed so softly that neither of us could speak. Ah, such a morning as compared with this.

The clouds are so low. They bend down to the tops of the poplars and kiss them, lingering about as if to say, "We shall never kiss you again for tomorrow you will lie crumpled upon the earth." Charlotte, will it be so with me, I wonder?

You say you are so very sad. Poor little girl, if I could only be with you. When I think of the three long months before I can possibly see you again my heart breaks and the hours pass like nightmares. There is only one chance of seeing you before then and you know the price of that. If the end is here, I wish it would come speedily. This life, this torture, it is terrible!

Yes, I have become somewhat accustomed to our general way of living but not to this awful loneliness which seems to gnaw the very heart and soul out of me. It is this knowing that no matter where I might be, you will not rush madly into my arms and ask me to crush your darling lips with kisses.

The blue handkerchief came along safely. It is so deliciously perfumed and Charlotte, it is just like you!

The French offensive at Hill- is still raging. The noise is deafening. Every gun for miles around is pouring steel into the Hun. The Earth trembles and there is a continual roar. We have not been able to get any rest and the men are just about dead from fatigue. They work too hard and do not look after themselves. To go back and forth over these roads under shell fire without sleep for hours at a time, and be put to physical tests in clearing up a place or carrying the men over stretches of the road where the machines cannot pass, is enough to take the life out of anyone.

The night before the attack was lively. No one slept in the little towns leading up to the front. The men were brought to J— in trucks. From there they walked to the line. We left about one A. M. The French stormed the Hill at four o'clock that morning. Band I had to have three different cars during the first twenty-four hours of the slaughter.

They would get too hot. This life cannot be described. Rain, mud, dead, blood, and the shrieks of the men. Their voices are pitiful against the roar of the guns. It makes one's head swim.

We met a group of Germans running along the road with their hands high in the air yelling, "Kamerad! Kamerad!" They were still under shell fire so we did not take their helmets until we

found them later at one of the cages for prisoners. They had given themselves up and were glad to be out of the fight. One of the prisoners told a Frenchman he was glad to be in France. He said he had had nothing to eat for days except black bread until he came over. A poilu had given him some of his rations. There was an officer in the same cage and he was very sullen when he heard this. Many of the captured Germans look filthy criminals but assume an air of snobbishness which is amusing.

Back a mile or so the noise is not so bad but here it plows into one's head until it almost crazes one.

We hope to hear every day that it is over and the world is at peace again. There is only one way it can end and of course that means a continuation of the slaughter.

We will soon go on repos. The division to which we are attached has lost a great many men. When their loss reaches a certain per cent they are sent to the rear.

War is a cold blooded proposition.

The Germans seem to fly over our lines as they please. They have been coming over all day.

A young French officer took Band myself to an observation point which overlooked the entire valley. The whole battlefield was below us. It was a sad sight, the ruined villages and ravaged forests. We looked over miles and miles of territory held by the Germans.

These Frenchmen are a peculiar lot. Once in a while they are, as a whole, very decent, but we have had our eyes opened to their gratitude and appreciation. One of the men here took us to D- with an order for our dinner. We had had nothing to eat all day except a few biscuits which we happened to have in the car. When we reached the town, what was left of it, he went about shaking hands with everyone and finally disappeared. We thought he would return again in a few moments and show us where we were to eat. Soon the Germans began a bombardment and we were left in the

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open. The car was in danger and so were our lives. We went off without him.

Early this morning we stopped at one of the forest dugouts where we hoped to find a fire. We had been out all night and were cold and wet. When we reached the door we found it latched from the inside. We tried to get at the latch by using a stick but before we got along very far a Frenchman came and asked us what we wanted. We told him in the best French possible for us. He understood and answered, "no, no, no, no," and turned back into the room. All we could do was to stand there and look through the crack in the doorway. I do not know why we were kept out. It was the only place we could find shelter. Two other Frenchmen came up and one of them pushed the latch from the outside with his bayonet. We went into the first room. The Frenchmen were drinking tea in the room opposite.

This reminds me of other incidents. When we first came up these men would sit around in the dugouts drinking their hot stuff and never offer us a cup. When they found we had an ample supply of rum and cigarettes they became a little more generous. This bartering became disgusting and we finally did without tea rather than bother with them.

A Frenchman once explained to me that the men were in their own land and should have all the comforts possible. I was tempted to ask what he thought about those who were three thousand miles or more from home. He told me they did not want the Americans in France. All they needed were the supplies and money. I am afraid he is a little premature in his judgment. Some day he may be glad we are here.

An enemy plane has just fallen. It came down slowly and I do not think the pilot is hurt in any way. The Germans are shelling the town as a reprisal. We will have to take cover.

B came in this morning with a special "Orde de movement" into territory which neither he nor myself had