Clegg leaned over the dead man and felt in the pockets of his dressing-gown.
The right-hand pocket was empty. He gave a sharp exclamation when he took from the left—a revolver. He looked at it carefully. “Loaded in five chambers,” he declared—“the sixth has been discharged.” His eyes traveled slowly round the room. Then they came back to Stewart. “Did you hear anything like a shot any time last evening or during the night?”
Stewart shook his head in dissent. “Nothing at all!”
“Is this your father’s revolver?”
“It looks like it—though it’s a common pattern.”
Clegg turned to the Doctor. “Finished your little investigation, Doctor?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “Been dead about twelve hours, I should say, and received three blows I think! I’ll leave him as nearly as possible as he was when I came in. I’ll make arrangements for moving him later.”
“Thank you, Doctor!” Clegg returned to young Stewart. “I suppose your father had had no recent quarrel with anybody?”
“N—no. Not that I’m aware of! Of course a man with his vast financial interests didn’t go through life without making some enemies—and pretty vindictive ones at that—but I can think of nothing special—certainly not recently.”
He spoke with deep feeling in his voice, and Clegg wasn’t absolutely sure that there hadn’t been just a trace of hesitation in the first part of his answer.