The door was opened by an elderly man in butler’s dress, honest and kindly-looking, but rather stupid. John Burt, evidently. He asked French to step inside while he took his card to his master.
The hall was of fair size, with a large, old-fashioned fireplace and lead-lighted windows. French had not much time to observe it, for Burt called him almost immediately into a room on the left of the hall door.
It was long, low, and delightfully furnished as a study. Bookcases lined the walls and a couple of deep saddle-bag armchairs stood on the soft Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. A collector’s entomological cabinet was in one corner, with close by a table bearing books and a fine microscope. The room was evidently in the corner of the house, for there were French windows in adjacent walls. In one of these was a leather-topped desk and at the desk was seated a shortish man with a strong, clean-shaven face, iron grey hair, and a not too amiable expression. He rose as French entered.
“Inspector French of Scotland Yard, is it not? I have heard that you were in the town.”
“That’s correct, sir,” French answered, taking the chair to which the other pointed. “You’ve probably heard enough, then, to guess my business?”
Colonel Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I heard you were investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. I don’t know the object of this call.”
“I’ve come, Colonel Domlio, in connection with my investigation. I want to ask for your help in it.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Two things, sir. In the first place, I want any information you can give me about either of the two gentlemen you mentioned or anything which might throw light on the tragedy. Secondly, I would be obliged if you would answer the purely formal question that we inspectors have to ask all who were in any way connected with the victim of such a tragedy. Where were you yourself at the time of the occurrence?”