For a long two minutes Professor Gorakski stood looking down at the body of Jack Writz, internationally known turfman, lying on the floor of the stall. Near his hand was a half smoked cigarette.

His face had been terribly disfigured by the mark of a horseshoe; the round part had made a deep impression in the skull, the heels had torn away part of his jaw.

Pocketing the cigarette Gorakski walked to the stall which now housed the pride of the Writz stables, Doctor C.

"Bad tempered bit of flesh he is, sir, but I never thought he'd kick the master," said trainer Frank.

"Do you know exactly how tall Mr. Writz is...very short isn't he?"

"Yes, sir...five feet eight."

"When you found Mr. Writz dead did you touch anything?"

"Just moved the horse in here. Mr. Writz wasn't far behind him and I was afraid he might kick him again."

How could such an experienced horseman permit himself to be kicked to death, wondered Gorakski. He stood staring at the horse as if to find the answer to his question there.

**

"I didn't know my husband was missing until the groom reported finding him this morning." replied Mrs. Writz to Gorakski's question. "We'd had a petty argument at dinner; he left the house about 7:30. When he didn't return by 8 I went to a concert with friends."

"Had your husband intended accompanying you?"

"Yes, he had."

"Then why wasn't he in evening clothes at 7:30 when you last saw him?"

"Why...I..."

"Need I tell YOU," interrupted Gorakski, "that he was murdered?"

HOW DID THE PROFESSOR KNOW MILLIONAIRE WRITE WAS MURDERED?