“It is locked, and the key is in my table,” said the old lawyer, and then they searched the other rooms, finding Capel’s watch, purse and pocketbook, and looked at each other blankly.
“He must be out,” said Artis.
“No, sir; here’s his hat and stick.”
Artis stopped, thinking, and then bounded up the stairs again to the Colonel’s door.
“I thought so,” he said. “There’s something wrong here. Look.” He pointed to several holes through the mahogany door, the mark of a saw scoring the panels, and the reddish dust on the lion-skin mat. “Is any one here?” he cried, knocking. “I say! Is any one here? Pah! Look at that!”
He uttered a cry, almost like a woman, as he pointed to a place where the lion-skin rug did not reach, and there, dimly seen by the gloomy light thrown by the stained-glass window, was a little thread of blood that had run beneath the door.