By a large, old-fashioned fireplace in the southwest corner stood a heavy leathern couch; besides this the room contained nothing more in the way of large furniture except a heavy oaken table which stood in the bay of the east window. There was a swivelled desk-chair before the table; a Morris chair, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a light ladder whereby the higher shelves were made accessible. All this at a glance.
Presently, however, a number of details challenged Captain Converse's attention.
First of all, let us, as briefly as possible, dismiss the grewsome, silent figure in the centre of the floor. It lay flat upon its back beside the desk-chair; the arms were wide outstretched, and a dagger handle of ebony, or some other black wood, protruded from the left breast, into which the blade had been driven to the hilt. Surprisingly little blood had found its way through the wound, since the blade must have been reposing in the stilled heart—a well-aimed, deadly blow, signifying a cool and sinister intent. Death could not have ridden more swiftly on a thunderbolt; and plainly it had met its victim here just as he was either in the act of rising hastily from the swivel-chair, or at the moment he had gotten to his feet.
A brief inspection showed that most of the room's windows were closed and fastened, as were also the inside wooden blinds, and that lace curtains hung from the ceiling to the window-seats.
Before the table the swivel-chair was turned so that it faced two pairs of French windows in the front or north wall. These opened on a wide veranda extending across the entire front of the house. One pair of these windows now stood open, and between them stood the room's third chair,—the straight-backed one,—and upon it the Captain's attention seemed to linger.
If General Westbrook had been seated in the desk-chair, who had occupied this one so near the handily opened window? It faced the one before the desk, and their relative positions irresistibly suggested a tête-à-tête, the silent figure on the floor that this tête-à-tête had been brought to an abrupt and violent termination. Both chairs had been forcibly pushed back a foot or more, as if the occupants of each had arisen with precipitation; for the swivel-chair had raked up one end of a magnificent tiger-skin, tearing the felt lining; and the one by the window could be traced back to where it had formerly stood, by the four deep scorings that its legs had made in the polished surface of the floor.
The occupancy of the straight-backed chair seemed to contain the crux of the matter. And here was presented another suggestion: whoever had chosen a seat so close to the open window had done so with an eye to hasty and easy retreat. This spot seemed to have attracted Mr. Converse's attention immediately after his first cursory glimpse; he still stood just inside the doorway, and his eyes, after travelling over various details of the scene before him, returned again and again to the vacant seat.
At last his regard rested upon Officer Mike Clancy, standing respectfully at attention, and he pointed to the object of his interest.
"Clancy," he asked, "who's been sitting in that chair?"
"Sure, an' there's been no wan, sorr, since Oi've been in the room."