“Nothing was taken from the room then, I suppose?” he enquired.
“Nothing that could be traced. Nothing apparently of any value. Mr. Endacott had been occupied in the translation of some wonderful Chinese manuscripts at the time the affair happened. The box containing them was upset and the manuscripts were all over the place, but no one could tell if any were missing, or if they were of any real value. Even his niece, Miss Endacott, who ought to have known, had nothing whatever to say.”
“What sort of a man was this predecessor of mine?” he asked.
“He had been a great scholar in his day,” she answered, a little doubtfully, “but really I only saw him once or twice. Some of the papers called him the greatest living authority on Chinese art and antiquities. He had spent nearly all his life out there.”
“Of cheerful disposition?”
“Not very. He was exceedingly reserved and seemed all the time engrossed in his work. He chose this part of the world, I think, to be near Madame, but, considering that they were brother and sister, he saw very little of her.”
“And the young lady—his niece?”
“She was very attractive—I suppose you might say beautiful,” was the somewhat cold reply. “She left soon after the inquest and hasn’t returned yet. She is coming to stay with Madame, I believe, very shortly.”
“A most mysterious affair!” Mr. Johnson reflected. “Yet I dare say, if one knew where to start, the solution would be very simple. Now, supposing, Miss Besant, any one were to offer you the thing you most desired in life to discover who fired that shot, where should you start your investigations?”
She turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy droop of her eyelids had for a moment gone, and he saw that her eyes themselves were beautiful.