“Who else on the premises?”
“The servant-girl. Our boy. My brother, a medical student, lives here, but he has not yet returned. He is at a friend’s house—a little party.”
“And you’ve had a party here, Miss?”
“Oh, no; we never have company.”
“That’ll do, Miss. Now for the surgery. One moment: your name, please?”
“Richmond Chartley.”
“That’ll do. Rum name,” he muttered; and following the lady, who led the way with a chamber candlestick in past the open door of a gloomy-looking dining-room, constable John Whyley found himself at the end of a passage to the left, in front of a half-glass door, whose panes were covered on the other side by a thick dark blind.
“My father’s surgery,” said the lady in answer to an inquiring look.
The constable nodded, and tried the door twice before kneeling down and holding his light to the key hole.
“Key in,” he said gruffly, “locked inside. Who’s likely to be here?”