John Minute lay on the floor on his back, and it did not need a doctor to tell that he was dead. By his side, and almost within reach of his hand, was a revolver of a very heavy army pattern. Mechanically the constable picked up the revolver and turned his stern face to the other occupant of the room.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he found his breath to say.
Frank Merrill had been leaning over his uncle as the constable entered, but now stood erect, pale, but perfectly self-possessed.
"I heard the shot and I came in," he said.
"Stay where you are," said the constable, and, stepping quickly out on to the lawn, he blew his whistle long and shrilly, then returned to the room.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he repeated.
"It is a very bad business," said the other in a low voice.
"Is this revolver yours?"
Frank shook his head.