But he did not say it.
Behind him, the door to the hall opened. Hubert Fane, effulgent and self-satisfied, opened the door; and then stopped short. Rich saw the expression on his face as Hubert stared from behind Sharpless and Ann Browning, beyond them to Arthur.
And Rich himself whirled round.
Arthur Fane coughed only once. A black handle, which looked like rubber but could not have been rubber, was protruding from Arthur's white shirt just over the cross Rich had drawn there. But the shirt was no longer white. A moving stain, dull red, widened and deepened round the handle as its edges soaked through the thin fabric.
Arthur, his elbows dug into the arms of the chair, tried to push himself forward. His knees shook. His lips drew back, writhing, for what must have been a second of intense agony. Then he pitched forward on his face.
Five
Nobody moved. It may be accounted as doubtful whether anybody could have moved. Such a sight as this had first of all to be understood.
The seconds ticked by: ten, twenty, thirty. Arthur Fane lay partly on his side and partly on his face, also without moving. The light of the lamp was reflected in patches from the polished hardwood floor.
Presently, Dr. Rich went down on one knee beside Arthur. He rolled Arthur over on his back. First he felt for a pulse at the wrist; then he took his watch out of his pocket, and held it so that the crystal almost touched Arthur's lips. No breath clouded the glass. After consulting the watch as to the time, Rich replaced it in his pocket.
"Incredible as it seems, this man is dead."