“Oh, nothing; except that your bump of native caution seems to be remarkably well developed. Try and get over it. I’ll take the plunges; you follow. Where had we got to? Oh, yes; Stanworth was not alone in the library last night. Now, then, what does that give us?”
“Heaven only knows what it won’t give you,” murmured Alec despairingly.
“I know what it’s going to give you,” retorted Roger complacently, “and that’s a shock. It’s my firm impression that old Stanworth never committed suicide at all last night.”
“What?” Alec gasped. “What on earth do you mean?”
“That he was murdered!”
Alec lowered his pipe and stared with incredulous eyes at his companion.
“My dear old chap,” he said after a little pause, “have you gone suddenly quite daft?”
“On the contrary,” replied Roger calmly, “I was never so remarkably sane in my life.”
“But—but how could he possibly have been murdered? The windows all fastened and the door locked on the inside, with the key in the lock as well! And, good Lord, his own statement sitting on the table in front of him! Roger, my dear old chap, you’re mad.”
“To say nothing of the fact that his grip on the revolver was—what did the doctor call it? Oh, yes; properly adjusted, and must have been applied during life. Yes, there are certainly difficulties, Alec, I grant you.”