"We must already have left the building," Hemingway muttered. "Any idea who could have done it?"
"Yes, sir! It can't have been anyone but Mr.. Poulton, or Miss Birtley: I'm sure of that! I'm holding Miss Birtley, in the library. Mr.. Poulton left the house nearly half an hour ago.
"All right!" Hemingway said curtly. "I'll have a word with you presently: you can clear off for the present!"
"Thank you, sir!" said Thrimby, with real gratitude, and effaced himself.
Hemingway shut the door of the boudoir. He laid his fingers for a brief space over Mrs. Haddington's wrist, and then said in a matter-of-fact voice: "Seem to have got on the wrong scent, don't I? A nice set-out, this is! I daresay the Department has sent the doctor off already, but you'd better ring through, Sandy, in case of accidents. I don't know how long she's been dead, but she's warm still. Tell 'em I've got a duplicate murder on my hands, and I want the usual bag of tricks sent round!"
The Inspector drew out his handkerchief, and, through its folds, picked up the telephone. While he spoke into the receiver, his superior was subjecting the body of Mrs. Haddington to a close scrutiny. The chair in which she sat had been slewed a little away from the telephone-table; her head was thrown back, the nape of her neck resting against the gilded wood framing the padded back of the chair, and both her legs stuck out before her. Her arms hung limply, outside the arms of the chair, and her dress was rucked up on one side. The Chief Inspector cast a keen look round the room.
Grant replaced the telephone on its rest. "The fingerprint and photographic units are on their way, sir," he announced. "Mo thruaighe, but this is a terrible thing!"
Hemingway nodded.
"Is the man a maniac, think you?" "Can't say, I'm sure."
"It is identical!" the Inspector said, staring at the body.