“Exactly,” said Mr Girtle.
“Unless,” said Artis, “some one killed this black fellow when trying to rob his master.”
“Absurd!” cried Capel angrily, as he bent down over the dead man. “Look here,” he cried, “whoever it was must have been wounded. This knife is covered with blood.”
“His own, perhaps,” said Artis.
“May be so, but I think not. Now, Mr Girtle, what next?”
“The police,” said the old lawyer huskily. “Preenham, fetch me a little brandy; this terrible scene has made me faint.”
“Go, sir? Leave you here?”
“Yes, go at once,” said Mr Girtle, and there seemed to be an unwillingness to leave, as the butler went out and closed the door.
“You did not want that brandy,” said Artis quickly. “You wanted to get rid of him for a few minutes. I know what you are thinking—that it was that scoundrelly-faced footman.”
“Yes, you have guessed my thoughts.”