Dr. Reiland buried his face in his hands, and Joslyn turned to Trant. On the young man's face was a look of deep perplexity.
"When did you get that, Mr. Branower?" Trant asked, finally.
"He wrote it Saturday morning. It was delivered to my house Saturday afternoon. But I was motoring with my wife. I did not get it until I returned late Sunday afternoon."
"Then you could not have come much sooner."
"No; yet I might have done something if I had suspected that behind this letter was hidden his determination to commit suicide."
"Not suicide, Mr. Branower!" Trant interrupted curtly.
"What?"
"Look at his face. It is white and drawn. If asphyxiated, it would be blue, swollen. Before the gas was turned on he was dead—struck dead—"
"Struck dead? By whom?"
"By the man in this room last night! By the man who burned those notes, plugged the keyhole, turned on the gas, arranged the rest of these theatricals, and went away to leave Dr. Lawrie a thief and a suicide to—protect himself! Two men had access to the university funds, handled these notes! One lies before us; and the man in this room last night, I should say, was the other—" he glanced at the clock—"the man who at the hour of nine has not yet appeared at his office!"
"Harrison?" cried Joslyn and Reiland together.
"Yes, Harrison," Trant answered, stoutly. "I cer-
