THE DEAD MAN The match flared out, burning Miles' fingers so he dropped it still glowing on the floor.

We could yet distinguish dimly the outlines of the man's form at our feet, and I heard Billie come down the stairs behind us.

There was no other sound, except our breathing.
"Strike another, Sergeant," I commanded, surprised by the sound of my own voice, "and we'll see who the fellow is." He experienced difficulty making it light, but at last the tiny blaze illumined the spot where we stood.

I bent over, dreading the task, and turned the dead man's face up to the flare.

He was a man of middle age, wearing a closely trimmed chin beard.