Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow.
I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object was to be attained by moving it. Ackroyd had clearly been dead some little time.
Then I heard young Raymond’s voice, horror-stricken and incredulous, outside.
“What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where’s the doctor?”
He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into the room.
“My God!” said Raymond from behind him; “it’s true, then.”
Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.
“Nothing must be moved,” I explained. “The police must see him exactly as he is now.”
Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over Blunt’s shoulder at the body.
“This is terrible,” he said in a low voice.