He ran downstairs, passing Paul Harker on the way. For what seemed an eternity he stood by the instrument before he could get through. Then he returned to the room above.
"A doctor's coming at once," he announced breathlessly, and then he stopped dead—just inside the door.
Muddled together in a group at the end of the room were all the women—all save Iris Sala. She was standing by Mrs. Harker's chair, with Paul Harker on the other side.
"There is no need for a doctor, Mr. Merton," said Harker, in a terrible voice. "My wife is dead. And my wife has been murdered!"
"Murdered!" gasped Billy, mechanically.
"Murdered," repeated Harker. "Come and see."
Dazedly Billy walked towards him, to stop and stare foolishly at the woman in the chair. For they had propped her up and laid her head back, and on her throat distinct and clear were the marks of a hand. The four fingers on one side, the thumb on the other, showed up red and angry in the bright light.
"She had a weak heart, Mr. Merton," continued Paul Harker, slowly. "Any sudden shock, such as a hand grasping her throat"—his voice shook a little—"would have been liable to kill her. And a hand did grasp her throat: the hand that tore off her pearls."
"My God!" muttered Billy. "It's ghastly—ghastly! Then that thing we heard must have—must have——"
"Must have murdered my wife, Mr. Merton. The question is—what was it we heard? I fear we shall find it difficult to persuade the police on the matter of a tangible materialization. They deal in more mundane causes."