“Certainly, Bathurst. Capital suggestion. You and Jack get along, Arkwright. And all the rest of you go, please, to the garden except Mr. Bathurst and Bill Cunningham. No good can be done by crowding round.”
Hornby, Barker, Daventry and the others did as they were bid, very pleased I think to get into the wholesome fresh air! And I turned to look at what Anthony had pointed out.
Three chairs were overturned on the floor, the other side of the table, and by the side of one lay the poker from the billiard room fireplace.
The window at the further end of the room, overlooking the gravel drive that ran along that side of the house was open at the bottom—at least, a couple of feet. Prescott was fully dressed. As far as I could judge in the same clothes as he had worn the previous evening. Dinner jacket, wing collar, bow tie, dress shirt, to my eye exactly as he had dined. An exclamation from Anthony arrested my attention.
“What’s he wearing brown shoes for? Eh”—rubbing his hands—“Bill, I fancy I’ve got my chance after all. Do you see that, Sir Charles? Brown shoes! And what is more”—he crowed with excitement—“one hasn’t got a lace.”
“My God!” said Sir Charles, “you’re right. Perhaps he dressed in a hurry.”
Anthony was shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he muttered, “but——” Sir Charles turned to us, agitation on his face.
“It has just occurred to me,” he said, “you don’t think anybody in the house...?”
Anthony shook his head again. “It’s a bad business, and I can’t tell you anything till the police come. There are several questions I require answered.”
This time it was my turn to provide the sensation.