"Twelve o'clock," said Bruge crisply. "When did you discover the crime, my lord?"
"At half-past eleven," replied Prelice, shivering. "Good heavens, is it only half-an-hour since then? It seems like years."
"We were on the spot in ten minutes," said Bruge with official satisfaction, "and haven't been long in getting things ship-shape. Now that these ladies and gentlemen have gone, we can look into matters. Doctor," he glanced at the young man attending to Shepworth, "is your patient reviving?"
"A trifle," answered the other, rising; "help me to place him near the window—in a draught."
"It is a long faint," said the Inspector, helping to wheel the armchair to the open window.
"It is not a faint at all. The man is in a cataleptic state, induced by the administration of some drug."
"Induced by the odour of a burning herb, you mean," said Prelice, looking at the rigid face of Shepworth, which was as expressionless as that of the dead man at the table.
"What's that?" questioned the Inspector, turning his head.
Prelice waved his hand. "I'll explain later, and after I have seen my friend Dr. Horace."
"Horace! Horace!" The medical man who was examining the corpse looked up at this remark. "I know him slightly. A great traveller, isn't he?"