“They haven’t been in very long,” he muttered, raising one to his nose. “Been rubbed in paraffin candle, I should say.”
He began turning another, while the sergeant gave Guest the lantern to hold while he went and picked up the piece of candle they had found at first.
“Not all teeth marks, gentlemen,” he said; “the candle was used to ease those screws.”
There was a pause then, for the man was at work on the last screw, and as he turned, Guest arrived at the course he should pursue. Stratton was ignoring the fact that the closet belonged to his room; he must, for his own sake, do the same. He could not give evidence against his friend; for there it was plain enough now, and if Stratton had been guilty of Brettison’s death, he was being bitterly punished for his crime.
The last screw fell on the floor, and was picked up and placed with the others. Then the man stood with his screw-driver in his hand.
“Prize it open?” he said. The sergeant nodded, and on forcing the edge of the screw-driver in the crack between the inner half of the bar and the jamb, it acted as a lever, and the door gave with a faint creak, but as soon as it was a couple of inches open the man drew back.
“Your job now,” he said.
The sergeant stepped forward; Stratton stood firm, as if carved in stone, and Guest closed his eyes, feeling sick, and as if the room was turning round, till a sharp ejaculation made him open his eyes again to see that the sergeant had entered with his lantern, and was making it play over the panels of the inner side of the farther door.
“That’s the old door leading into the place, I suppose, sir?” he said.
“Yes.”