In the side of the library which faced the lawn at the back of the house had been set a pair of wide French windows, as was also the case in the dining room; while in the other outer wall, looking over the rose garden, was a large modern window of the sash type, with a deep window seat below it set in the thickness of the wall. The only original window still remaining was a small lattice one in the corner on the left of the sash window. The door that led into the room from the hall was in the corner diagonal to the lattice window. The fireplace exactly faced the French windows.
The room was not overcrowded with furniture. An armchair or two stood by the fireplace; and there was a small table, bearing a typewriter, by the wall on the same side as the door. In the angle between the sash window and the fireplace stood a deep, black-covered settee. The most important piece of furniture was a large writing table in the exact centre of the room facing the sash window. The walls were lined with bookshelves.
This was the picture that had flashed across Roger’s retentive brain as he stood in the little group outside the library door and listened to Major Jefferson’s curt, almost brutal announcement. With instinctive curiosity he wondered where the grim addition to the scene was lying. The next moment the same instinct had caused him to turn and scan the face of his hostess.
Lady Stanworth had not screamed or fainted; she was not that sort of person. Indeed, beyond a slight and involuntary catching of her breath she betrayed little or no emotion.
“Shot himself?” she repeated calmly. “Are you quite sure?”
“I’m afraid there can be no doubt at all,” Major Jefferson said gravely. “He must have been dead for some hours.”
“And you think I had better not go in?”
“It’s not a pretty sight,” said the Major shortly.
“Very well. But we had better telephone for a doctor in any case, I suppose. I will do that. Victor called in Doctor Matthewson when he had hay fever a few weeks ago, didn’t he? I’ll send for him.”
“And the police,” said Jefferson. “They’ll have to be notified. I’ll do that.”
“I can let them know at the same time,” Lady Stanworth returned, moving across the hall in the direction of the telephone.
Roger and Alec exchanged glances.
“I always said that was a wonderful woman,” whispered the former behind his hand, as they prepared to follow the Major into the library.
“Is there anything I can do, sir?” asked the butler from the doorway.
Major Jefferson glanced at him sharply. “Yes; you come in, too, Graves. It makes another witness.”
The four men filed in silence into the room. The curtains were still drawn, and the light was dim. With an abrupt movement Jefferson strode across and pulled back the curtains from the French windows. Then he turned and nodded silently towards the big writing table.
In the chair behind this, which was turned a little away from the table, sat, or rather reclined, the body of Mr. Stanworth. His right hand, which was dangling by his side almost to the floor, was tightly clenched about a small revolver, the finger still convulsively clasping the trigger. In the centre of his forehead, just at the base of his hair, was a little circular hole, the edges of which looked strangely blackened. His head lolled indolently over the top of the chair-back, and his wide-open eyes were staring glassily at the ceiling.
It was, as Jefferson had said, not a pretty sight.
Roger was the first to break the silence. “Well, I’m damned!” he said softly. “What on earth did he want to go and do that for?”
“Why does anyone do it?” asked Jefferson, staring at the still figure as if trying to read its secret. “Because he has some damned good reason of his own, I suppose.”
Roger shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. “No doubt. But old Stanworth of all people! I shouldn’t have thought that he’d got a care in the world. Not that I knew him particularly well, of course; but I was only saying to you yesterday, Alec—” He broke off suddenly. Alec’s face had gone a ghastly white, and he was gazing with horrified eyes at the figure in the chair.
“I was forgetting,” Roger muttered in a low voice to Jefferson. “The boy was too young to be in the war; he’s only twenty-four. It’s a bit of a shock, one’s first corpse. Especially this sort of thing. Phew! There’s a smell of death in here. Let’s get some of these windows open.”
He turned and threw open the French windows, letting a draught of warm air into the room. “Locked on the inside all right,” he commented as he did so. “So are the other two. Here, Alec, come outside for a minute. It’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit turned up.”
Alec smiled faintly; he had managed to pull himself together and the colour was returning to his cheeks. “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, a little shakily. “It was just a bit of a shock at first.”
The breeze had fluttered the papers on the writing table and one fell to the ground. Graves, the butler, stepped forward to pick it up. Before replacing it he glanced idly at something that was written on it.
“Sir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Look at this!”
He handed the paper to Major Jefferson, who read it eagerly.
“Anything of interest?” Roger asked curiously.
“Very much so,” Jefferson replied dryly. “It’s a statement. I’ll read it to you. ‘To Whom it May Concern. For reasons that concern only myself, I have decided to kill myself.’ And his signature at the bottom.” He twisted the piece of paper thoughtfully in his hand. “But I wish he’d said what his reasons were,” he added in puzzled tones.
“Yes, it’s a remarkably reticent document,” Roger agreed. “But it’s plain enough, isn’t it? May I have
