"Pshaw! I 'll bet it was hotter than that," said Stodger, in a disappointed tone.
Now, then, here were the parts of the puzzle I had to piece together in order to gain some conception of the manner in which Felix Page met his death.
The still form lay, as I have already stated, on the landing which extended across the rear of the hall like a balcony. The stairs continued thence up to the second story, but in a direction exactly the reverse of the first flight and on the opposite side of the hall therefrom.
Standing midway upon this landing, I had a view not only of the entire spacious hall, but could also see the top of the étagère tipped forward at the head of the stairs. It had evidently been a receptacle for old magazines and newspapers, all of which, that had not been checked by the balusters, now lay in a confused heap upon the floor just as they slid from the shelves.
Even across the distance which then separated me from this article of furniture—twelve feet, I should say—I could see that the top was coated with dust, save for two spots where the rich red lustre of the polished mahogany shone conspicuously: one about five inches in diameter and forming a perfect octagon, the other much smaller, and ragged in outline.
Here at my feet was the explanation. The base of the iron candlestick accounted for the octagonal design; while the fragments of a shallow, saucer-like sea-shell, which had been utilized as a match holder, accounted for the smaller spot. These two articles manifestly had reposed upon top of the étagère. The matches, to the number of half a dozen or so, were strewn upon the stairs and landing.
I picked up the candlestick from where it lay upon the landing, and examined it with much interest. It was a solid affair of ornamental iron, about fifteen inches high, and weighed some six or eight pounds—clearly a nasty weapon if wielded by a strong arm.
The bit of candle which it had contained lay nearby, one end flattened out from having been crushed under somebody's foot.
At the time of his tragic death Mr. Page was in his sixty-first year, but a large and very vigorous man. He had been garbed in his street clothes (save for a frayed and faded purple smoking-jacket), thus contradicting Burke's belief that the household had retired. On the right temple the mark clearly showed where the candlestick's base had crushed the skull beneath. Death certainly had been instantaneous.
While I held the candlestick in my band, Maillot suddenly exclaimed: