“Damned funny!” said Bruton, at length. “Look here, Dick, will you stay where you are while I go and investigate? He may be in the garden somewhere, or he might have dropped off to sleep in one of the outhouses.”
Cassels, sitting down on the top step, lit his pipe. Summing up the situation and attempting to calculate the chances of Gascoyne’s having committed suicide, he muttered: “More than likely—more than likely. A chap like that might do it just for the sake of making an effect—just to give the whole affair its proper dramatic close.”
Bruton was a long time away. At last he returned, running.
“Are you there, Dick? No: I’ve found nothing. He’s not there. I’ve tried all the windows I can get at, but they’re all locked. His servant sleeps out, and I don’t know where to get hold of him. We must break one of the windows.”
“Yes, I suppose we must, if it’s only to ease our own minds. This damned business is getting on my nerves.”
They selected the smallest window, broke it open, and entered the house.
“You’d better let me go first,” said Cassels, “my nerves are a bit steadier than yours.”
They entered the lit-up room—the room in which they had breakfasted. It was untenanted. The decanter which, earlier in the day, had been half full was now empty; by its side was a bottle of brandy holding a third of its original contents. Without a word, acting on the same impulse, they left the room, ascended the stairs and entered Gascoyne’s bedroom. This also was untenanted. Near the door the floor was covered with the debris of the shattered cast. Bruton walked to and almost pounced upon the dressing-table, opening one drawer after another.
“His revolver’s gone,” he said, as if the final word had been spoken.
“Is there a piano in the house?”