“Good God, gentlemen!” gasped the butler, “it’s Charles.”
The horribly distorted features were, indeed, those of the footman, and the mystery of the death-chamber began to grow lighter, for it was evident that for some reason he had entered the room in the night. For no good mission, certainly, a short whalebone-handled life-preserver hanging by a twisted thong from his wrist.
The hideous stains upon the kukri were clearly enough explained by the sight of a terrible gash in the man’s throat, and one of his hands was crimsoned and smeared—the one that had left its print upon the quilt, as, in his death struggle, he had rolled beneath the bed.
“No one else there, gentleman,” said the constable, looking beneath the bed and making his lantern play there and about the curtains, whilst as it shed its keen light across the calm, sleeping face of the Colonel, the man involuntarily took off his helmet and stepped back on tiptoe.
“Dead some hours,” said the doctor, rising.
“It is clear enough,” said Mr Girtle, in the midst of the painful silence. “This poor Hindoo was the faithful old servant of my deceased friend, and he died in defence of his master’s property.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old butler, excitedly. “Charles used to talk about master’s money and diamonds in the servants’ hall. I used to reprove him, and say that talking about such things was tempting yourself.”
“Never asked you to be in it, of course?” said the constable, going close up to him.
“Oh, no; never, sir; but are you quite sure both him and Mr Ramo are dead?”
“Quite,” said the constable. “There, you can say what you like, but it’s my duty to tell you that I shall take down anything you say, and it may be used in evidence against you.”