“Nothing whatever! The first intimation that I had that anything unusual had occurred was early this morning. Barton—one of the maids—was unable to gain admission to the library. She referred the matter to me—I came and tried the door—it was locked and the key gone. I went to Mr. Charles at once. We got Mr. Llewellyn and came down here together. We eventually burst the door open.”
“One moment, Butterworth! Are you perfectly certain that the key was in the lock on the inside and that the French doors were bolted when you entered?”
Butterworth paused for a brief moment to assimilate thoroughly the full significance of the question. Then he nodded in agreement.
“Yes, I am. Mr. Charles called our attention to the key, and I can swear to the bolts on the French doors having been shot tight. I saw them—you can rely on both those facts.”
Charles Stewart interposed. “I can vouch for that too, Clegg! Also Llewellyn. Rest easy on that point.” Clegg stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger, seemingly disinclined to accept this piece of soothing advice. There was no denying, however, the vital importance of what the butler had stated.
“Anything else, Butterworth?”
“We found my master dead, Mr. Clegg. Exactly as I can see him sitting now.” His voice broke. “It was a great blow to me. For all of us, no doubt; but one describes one’s own feelings best. No servant ever worked for a better master. I loved Mr. Stewart and I’m pleased and proud to think that he had a little affection for me. I don’t quite know what will happen to me now—I’m not a young man——”
Charles Stewart put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no need to worry, Butterworth. I should be sorry to fail one of my father’s servants.”
Butterworth’s eyes clouded with sorrow. “Thank you, Mr. Charles—thank you.”
He rose from the chair he had been occupying. Then turned with unmistakable dignity to Clegg. “Is there anything further you want of me?” he said.