The screen was illuminated. Upon it appeared a face, that of the late Hugh Carstairs. A glimpse and it was gone. Corrie gave a jerk.
“Two,” muttered Risk, and Kitty Carstairs smiled and disappeared.
“Three.” A man’s visage with an uncertain grin—Symington.
Then, for an instant, the screen held a certificate for 500 shares in the Zenith Gold Mines. Corrie sat as if frozen, but at the next he quivered, for he beheld a portion of a letter which he knew was in his safe.
“Six.” Behold! Sam, the postman, holding a copy of the Western Weekly in one hand and staring at a letter in the other. Again Corrie gave a jerk.
“Seven.” A five-pound note of the National Bank of Scotland.
“Eight.” A rear view of Corrie’s cottage, a ladder against the ivy, and a man of Corrie’s build reaching into an open window. And then there was a pause.
“Now,” said Risk, “we are going to have a little cinema entertainment, a scene from a drama of real life which I believe would interest the public, not to mention the police.”
As he spoke the door from the dwelling-house was opened a few inches, silently, unobserved.
“Go ahead,” said Risk.