‘Well,’ returned the Professor, again glancing dubiously at the clock, ‘if it’s important, I’ll be round. Good-bye.’
Twenty minutes later, he was met at the door by Waters’s secretary who was almost incoherent in his excitement.
‘He’s dead, Professor. Dead—there in the library!’
Fordney hurried to the room and found Waters slumped over his desk with his throat cut.
‘Well, tell me what happened,’ he said to the secretary, as he noted the position of the body, the open window, and the cigar-ash on the rug about six feet from Waters’s chair.
‘I came in about an hour ago, Professor, and went right upstairs to do some work. Twenty-five minutes ago I came down and heard him talking to you as I passed the library on my way to the pantry for a sandwich. I was there about twenty minutes, I imagine, and, as I came back through the hall, I happened to look in here, and there he was. I can’t imagine who did it or how it happened,’ he concluded.
‘Have a cigar,’ offered Fordney.
‘Thanks, I will, Professor. It’ll kind of steady the nerves.’
‘And now,’ said Fordney, ‘suppose you tell me the real truth of this affair.’