"He—it has been taken away, I presume?"
The detective nodded.
"Of course, Sir Felix. Nothing else has been touched, but after the police surgeon had made his examination the body was taken to the doctor's bedroom." He opened the door as he spoke and stood back for Sir Felix.
The lawyer motioned to him to go in.
"I cannot treat this as an ordinary case," he said brokenly. "He was my lifelong friend."
The two men glanced at him sympathetically. Then the inspector pushed the door wider and went in softly. Over his shoulder Skrine looked in.
Everything was as usual except that the revolving chair before the big writing-table was empty. For the rest, the curtains had been drawn over the window, but the room looked exactly as it had done when Wilton sprang in.
The inspector went straight to the vacant chair, and Skrine followed him.
"It was easy enough to see the hole by which the bullet had entered," the inspector remarked. "A stream of blood had trickled down the neck and on to his collar and shirt. All round the wound the flesh was blackened and discoloured."
It seemed to Skrine as he stood with his hand on the writing-table that his friend was still there, watching him with the same faintly detached air of amusement that had so often greeted him. In spite of his self-control Skrine's lips trembled.
"Brute and fiend! To murder a man like John Bastow! He—hanging is too good for him, Stoddart."
"Or her? As you said just now," the detective reminded him.
"Or her," Skrine assented. "The fiend must have come right up to him, Stoddart. You have the pistol?"
The detective shook his head.
"Not a sign of it, Sir Felix."
Skrine turned away, blowing his nose noisily.
"He—he wasn't alarmed in any way, you say, Stoddart," he said after a pause. "Then the fiend must have come through the garden door and stolen up behind him silently."
"Or been some one he was accustomed to see and with whom he regarded himself as perfectly safe," the detective suggested.
Skrine turned and looked at him.
"You mean—you suspect some one?"
"No, I don't," the detective said bluntly. "I beg your pardon, Sir Felix. I mean what I said—no more. To my mind it is self-evident that the murderer was some one known to Dr. Bastow—some one with whom he was sufficiently at home to go on with his work while the other was moving about the room. To me it hardly seems possible that anyone strange could have got into the room and shot Dr. Bastow without his knowing there was anyone there. Still one cannot rule out the possibility—"
"No," said Sir Felix. "No, of course one cannot." Then he stood absolutely motionless, his eyes fixed on the paper that was spread before the dead man's place. There were a few lines of writing and then the pen lay with a long zigzagging mark across the whiteness beneath, just as it must have fallen from the stiffening fingers.
The detective drew a small leather case from his pocket, and proceeded to take out a strong magnifying-glass, a pill-box full of fine grey powder and a tiny pair of tweezers. Then he changed his pince-nez for spectacles and turned to the window by which Wilton had entered and began to examine the curtains and blind with meticulous care. It occupied a good deal of time and seemed unproductive of any result.
Meanwhile Skrine, still looking at the paper, uttered a sharp exclamation. The detective looked up.
"This letter he was writing was to me," the lawyer said pointing downwards.
"Ah, I was coming to that." Stoddart did not turn.
The lawyer read aloud the few words the dead man had written:
"Dear Felix,
"I have been thinking over our conversation and have now decided upon my line of action with regard to the discovery I spoke of. I fancy you know what I meant. But it is, of course, quite possible that I am wrong. The proofs, such as they are, are in my Chinese box. But I shall always maintain—"
Then death had stepped in and the sentence remained unfinished for ever. Skrine's voice trembled as he read it aloud.
The detective was now prowling about near the door leading into the garden. He picked up some tiny fragments of what looked like mud with his tweezers and, after examining them through the magnifying-glass, laid them carefully in the little box in his hand. Then he came over to Skrine.
"You know to what those words refer, I take it, Sir Felix?"
Skrine nodded.
"As is self-evident, to a conversation that we had had that very afternoon."
"Do you think that conversation could in any way help us now?"
"I scarcely think so. It was all so vague really. But you shall judge for yourself. It has appeared to me for some time that Dr. Bastow was not in the best of health. So far, however, he had always evaded the subject when I mentioned it, but yesterday I taxed him with it directly. After beating about the bush for some time he admitted that his sickness was more of the mind than the body. In the course of his professional career he had discovered something connected with a crime that had been committed, and he was undecided what to do about it. He had a very sensitive nature, and it was preying upon his mind. He wanted my advice. I gave it to the best of my ability, not knowing any of the details of the affair, and he seemed inclined to accept it, but said he would see me again before deciding. He is absolutely wrong when he says he thinks I know what he meant. I should imagine from this letter"—tapping it as it lay on the table—"that he had made his decision before consulting me any further."
The detective looked at the paper then back again at Skrine standing behind the vacant chair.
"What does he mean by his Chinese box? We had better have that."
Skrine looked round vaguely.
"I take it he meant a box that generally used to stand on the table before him with gold dragons sprinkled over a red lacquer background—that sort of thing, don't you know. I don't see it now."
"It isn't here," said the detective quickly. "But perhaps he put it in some place of safety. How big a box was it?"
Sir Felix looked doubtful.
"Oh, about so big, I should say," holding his hands about a foot apart.
The detective nodded.
"It would go in the safe, then. We must search for it there. But first, Sir Felix, I must ask if you really had no idea of the nature of the discovery he had made, or why it was troubling him?"
"Really no knowledge whatever. But naturally one makes surmises—especially in a profession like mine. It is almost unavoidable."
"Of course." The detective looked puzzled. "But I am sure you appreciate the importance of this as well as, if not much better than I do, Sir Felix. Do you connect this secret of the doctor's with his murder?"
"N—o," Sir Felix said slowly. "Not if it is as I surmise. I really don't see that it could have any connexion with his death."
"You feel sure that you don't know the cause of the worry of which Dr. Bastow was speaking to you?"
"No, I don't," Sir Felix said bluntly. "I really feel sure of nothing."
The detective rubbed the side of his nose reflectively.
"I think you will have to tell us the nature of the secret, Sir Felix, or rather of what you surmise the nature to have been. I know you realize the importance of placing every detail in the hands of the police," he added.
Sir Felix did not hesitate.
"Certainly. The only stipulation I make is that I do not speak until your examination of the household