And, to conceal the horror growing in him, he blundered back to the sofa and sat down in his old place. Hastily he picked up the cigar and clipped its end with a cutter; Martin passed across a pocket-lighter.
"There's little more to tell," Stannard drew in smoke deeply, "though it was perhaps — no matter. I told you I couldn't get out. There was, of course, a door at the bottom of the shaft"
"A door?" said Martin.
"Yes. Logical deduction, as I sat in my corner, convinced me that there must be one. You know the facts: you should be able to see why the door was there, its purpose, and where it led. But the door," Stannard said thoughtfully, "was locked. I found it after groping round the walls in the dark. Locked!
That, Inspector, should give you a clue to the mystery of the girl's death. As for my plight when daylight came…"
"Martin," Ruth cried, "only opened the iron door, and threw the key inside!"
"One moment," Stannard intervened. "It was not Drake's fault Tell me, my dear fellow: when you fell from the roof this morning, was your wrist-watch smashed?"
The villain of the piece shook his head.
''No. It was the first thing I heard when I woke up. Ticking on my bedside table. I'm wearing it now."'
"Tell me the time, will you?"