“There has been a terrible struggle here,” said Capel. “Look.”
He pointed to where, plainly seen on the white counterpane that half covered the heavy valance, there was the mark of a bloody hand that had caught the quilt and dragged it a little down.
“Yes,” said Mr Girtle, looking about at overturned chairs, a small table driven out of its place, and a carriage clock swept off and lying on the floor. “Yes, there has been a terrible struggle.”
He looked at the dead man, and then in the direction of the strong chamber.
Artis saw, and said maliciously:
“Murder must mean robbery.”
“Impossible!” said the lawyer. “The door is shut. Stop. Let me see,” and stooping, he thrust his hand inside the silken robe the old Indian wore.
There was a dead silence as he searched hastily, and then drew out the keys and chain.
“All safe,” he cried; “see, here are the keys. They slip off and on this spring swivel; the old man always wore them there. The key of that door; the key of the iron chamber; the key of the steel chest. Gentlemen, I shall remove the keys. Mr Capel, they are yours, now. Take them.”
“No,” said Capel quietly. “Keep them, sir. Now, what do you make of this? It seems to me that the murderer must have come in by this door, and encountered Ramo, and, after the terrible struggle, have escaped by the window.”