“Looks more like the entrance to a theatre,” said Elk in an undertone.
Dick knocked. There was no answer. He knocked louder. Still there was no answer. And then, to Elk’s surprise, the young man launched himself at the door with all his strength. There was a sound of splitting wood and the door parted. Dick stood in the entrance, rooted to the ground.
Ezra Maitland lay half on the bed, his legs dragging over the side. At his feet was the prostrate figure of the old woman whom he called Matilda. They were both dead, and the pungent fumes of cordite still hung in a blue cloud beneath the ceiling.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE FOOTMAN
DICK ran to the bedside, and one glance at the still figures told him all he wanted to know.
“Both shot,” he said, and looked up at the filmy cloud under the ceiling. “May have happened any time—a quarter of an hour ago. This stuff hangs about for hours.”
“Hold every servant in the house,” said Elk in an undertone to the men who were with him.
A doorway led to a smaller bedroom, which was evidently that occupied by Maitland’s sister.
“The shot was fired from this entrance,” said Dick. “Probably a silencer was used, but we shall hear about that later.”