“Yes, Miss,” said Drew with a catch in his voice. “Yes, he is quite dead. He was slain in this room by a revolver shot which struck behind and under his left ear. No one was in the library when he locked himself in, save himself. No one was here when we broke the door down. And, save his servants and you, no one was in this house. He was––”
“Murdered!” Loris’ voice had lifted to one wild shriek of final conviction and grief. She swayed. Her knees bent beneath her skirt and bulged outwardly. She sank into a slow faint at the detective’s feet. She pillowed her head upon the rug. A silence followed.
Drew stooped, after a glance at the servants in the doorway, thrust his body as a barrier, and reached along Loris’ white arm until his hand closed over the barrel of the little revolver. He untwisted her cold fingers, and palmed the weapon under a shielding cuff. He rose, saying to Delaney, who had hurried forward:
“I’ll take charge of this.”
“Sure, Chief. Plant it. She didn’t have it.”
“She had it all right, but—we’ll suspend judgment. You and the butler carry her upstairs. Go easy. Her bedroom is on the third floor, I think. That’s the reason she didn’t come down sooner. Perhaps, well, I say, she didn’t hear us breaking down the door. We are her agents in this matter, now. Remember that, and say nothing to anybody. I’ll do the talking.”
Drew dropped his hand into his side pocket. It came out without the revolver but with a handkerchief between his fingers. He mopped his brow gracefully, then replaced the handkerchief. The motion was a natural one.
He followed Delaney and the butler with their soft burden as far as the first steps of the stairway. He turned and strode back to the doorway leading into the library. He faced about in this. He eyed the servants, who lowered their heads beneath his accusing scrutiny. Focusing his gaze to a searching squint he tried to single out a culprit from their midst. There seemed to be none. Each face was terror-lined and drawn. Each seemed to want to avoid his direct glance. None of all of them faced him with boldness or assurance. It was as he expected things to be. There was no evidence shown in the case that the servants of the Stockbridge régime had ever threatened the master. They were old, tried and trusted. They had the faults of their kind. These faults only served to strengthen Drew’s opinion that the murderer of the magnate had struck from the outside, without benefit of inside information. The letter and the telephone call were foreign. A note, pinned upon the millionaire’s pillow, would have been more effective. Nothing had been tried like that. This proved to Drew that he could eliminate the servants, for the time being.
“Which one of you is the valet?” he asked with final resolve.
“I am, sir!”