He glanced round the room.
“There doesn’t appear to be one here. Ask the housekeeper.”
Sinclair went to the head of the stairs and called.
There was some delay, and he called again angrily.
A muffled voice answered him.
“Where’s the telephone, quick?” he shouted.
A sound was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Simmons came up. She was crying.
“Stop that,” said Sinclair roughly. “Where is the telephone?”
“There isn’t one in the house, sir,” she said. “Sir James had it taken away. He was always being rung up.”
Collins was getting impatient. “Send one of your men for a doctor, then, the old woman is no good. There are plenty of them round here. Hurry, man, it may be life or death.”
Sinclair dashed down the steps, and called the man on duty. He returned breathless.
Collins had dragged two large mats to the door of the library, and was carefully spreading one on the floor. The two men entered, and placed the second mat beyond the first.
“On your knees,” he said in a whisper.
They approached the figure in the chair.
One glance was sufficient. Even in the semidarkness they could see an ugly mark on the side of the head from which a very thin trickle of blood was coming.
“A bullet hole,” said Sinclair, who was versed in these matters. “He’s been shot.”
“Hum,” said Collins, “wait for the doctor. Meanwhile I will have some light.” With the utmost precautions he moved his rugs to the window, and pulled up the blinds.
The room was beautifully furnished, for Sir James was a man of taste and had the means to gratify it.
The walls were covered with books to a height of seven feet.
Above that one or two choice pictures were hung.
The fireplace was a fine piece of carved oak.
As far as they could see, the room was empty.
The windows were hasped, and there was no other entrance.
The library had originally been two rooms, and ran the full depth of the house. It had been adapted by Sir James, and was his favourite room.
A fussy little doctor arrived, and was brought into the room with the same precautions.
Sinclair introduced himself and his companion.
The doctor made a very careful examination, while the others waited.
“Dead,” he said. “I should think about half an hour, possibly more. It is difficult to tell exactly.” He looked up.
“Is it a case of murder or suicide?”
“At present we know no more than you do,” said Sinclair. “We had only just come, and sent for you at once.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said the little doctor pompously.
“Meanwhile you will, of course, keep this entirely to yourself,” said Collins.
“But isn’t this?” he glanced at the stricken man. “Surely this is the Home Secretary.”
“Exactly,” said Collins dryly. “That is why it is necessary for you to remain silent until you are asked to speak. Superintendent Sinclair represents Scotland Yard. You understand?”
The doctor bowed. He saw himself playing a prominent part in a great drama, which would bring him notoriety and clients.
“The body had better be moved for me to make a more exhaustive examination,” said he.
“Would you please wait outside till we have made our observations if you don’t mind, as the fewer in here the better, but I think you had better remain in the house, if you can manage it.”
“Certainly,” said the doctor, “I am at your service.”
“Then perhaps you would tell the housekeeper to stay where she is,” said Sinclair.
“Now for your men,” said Collins, when the doctor had gone out.
“We must tell them to see that no one leaves the house.” They went first to the front door and called Smith.
Collins was careful to keep the open library door in sight all the time.
After giving him his orders, they had to get in touch with the man at the back. There was a small garden, bounded by a high wall, and beyond that a lane. Seated on the wall was the figure of the other man, keeping a good lookout. Collins went to a back window and called him softly.
“Seen anything?” he asked.
“No, sir, nothing doing here,” said the man cheerfully.
It was refreshing in the midst of what looked like a grim tragedy to find a cheery soul who seemed to be enjoying himself.
He returned to Sinclair.
“Now for the room.”
The two had been used to work together, and Sinclair knew exactly when to leave matters to Collins and when to take charge himself.
As was usual in these cases, Collins thought aloud, and the other checked his statements.
He approached the dead man, moving still on the rugs.
“Clean bullet wound—no burning—fired from a distance—probably while he slept—entered right temple—bullet lodged in the brain—all straight forward—both hands limp, and peaceful expression—ergo unexpected attack and no resistance—now, let’s see—eyes shut—confirms first impression. Anything else about the body?”
Sinclair looked at it critically.
“No;” he said, “but from the way he lies the shot must have come from the doorway, or somewhere near that.”
“We are coming to that in a minute,” said the other.
“Now let’s have a look round. Observation only, no speculation. Table, with two glasses.” He took one up and then the other.
“Just whisky and soda. There’s the decanter and there’s the syphon.”
“Nothing very mysterious about that. But who was the visitor? … Cigar ash, I cannot tell five hundred kinds of ash,” said he with a smile, “still, they both smoked.”
“Now for the floor—help me with the rugs. Right—hullo.”
As they moved the second rug they disclosed a revolver lying on the floor. Collins picked it up.
“Service revolver—Webley—now obsolete—” He broke the revolver carefully.
“Five full and one empty—seems obvious—too obvious.” He was always disappointed if a problem proved quite easy of solution.
“Well, we must wait for the bullet—I hope it doesn’t fit—”
Sinclair laughed. “I don’t believe you care in the least whether the murderer is punished or not, as long as you have something interesting to solve.”
“Oh, I must say I like something abstruse; but never mind.
“Now for footprints. On this soft pile carpet they ought to show, thanks to our precautions.”
He went down on his
