The doctors had done no more than ascertain he was dead, and Foyle himself had purposely not gone near the room until Harding had an opportunity of making his examinations.
"I shall take charge of this myself, if you do not mind, Sir Hilary," Foyle was saying. "Mainland is capable of looking after the routine work of the department, and in the case of a man of Mr. Grell's importance——"
"That is what I should have suggested," said Sir Hilary. "We must get to the bottom of this at all costs. You know Mr. Grell was to have been married to Lady Eileen Meredith at St. Margaret's, Westminster, this morning. It's a bad business. Let's see what Harding's got to say."
Their feet sank noiselessly into the thick carpet of the stairs as they moved towards the death-chamber. From an open doorway near the landing a flood of light issued.
"Very handy for any one to get away," commented Foyle. "The stairs lead direct to the hall, and there are only two rooms to pass. This carpet would deaden footsteps too."
They entered softly. Some one had turned all the lights on in the room, and it was bathed in brilliance.
A dying fire flickered in the grate; bookcases lined the red-papered walls, which were broken here and there by curios and sporting trophies gathered from many countries. There were a few etchings, which had evidently been chosen with the skill of a connoisseur.
Parallel with the window was a desk, scrupulously tidy. Half a dozen chairs were scattered about, and in a recess was a couch, over which the angular frock-coated figure of Professor Harding was bent. He looked up as the two men approached.
"It's clearly murder," he said. "He was probably killed between ten and eleven—stabbed through the heart. Curious weapon used too—look!"