Sir Clinton put his hands into his pockets and stood for a moment or two as though lost in thought. Then suddenly coming to life again, he made his way to the telephone box, where he shook himself free from Arthur on the plea of an urgent call.
When he had given his message through the telephone, the Chief Constable returned to the room in which the attack had been made. Wendover was apparently still busy with his search among the rhododendrons; Vera Forrest was with Sylvia; but the rest of the Whistlefield group were there, waiting to hear the latest news of the victim.
Ernest Shandon’s nerves had evidently suffered severely from this fresh shock. He was sitting in his original seat at the back of the room, his head sunk forward and his eyes staring apathetically at the carpet before him; while in his hand he held a glass of neat whisky which he had just poured out from the decanter beside him. Sir Clinton noticed that the curtains had been drawn in front of the window through which the attack had been made; and he was not far out in believing that this precaution was due to Ernest. It was, in fact, the first thing he had done, once he had found leisure for it.
Howard Torrance and Stenness were standing together near the fire-place. Howard, manifestly, was still in ignorance of some details of the tragedy; and he was endeavouring to extract them from Stenness by a series of eager questions. But the secretary, for once, seemed to have lost his efficiency. He was obviously replying almost at random; and his whole bearing was that of a man disturbed by a trivial interruption while in the midst of some intense preoccupation with another subject. His appearance suggested that of a man suddenly oppressed by an unexpected and intolerable calamity. Sir Clinton’s eyes narrowed as he swept his glance over the secretary’s face.
“He seems to be the most anxious of the lot,” he commented to himself.
Arthur Hawkhurst had been standing at the window with his back to the room, but as Sir Clinton came in he swung round. His face seemed disfigured by a tumult of emotions: anger, distrust, and anxiety were clearly written on it.
“Well,” he demanded sharply, “can you tell us any more?”
“You heard what Ardsley said yourself,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I haven’t seen him since then.”
Arthur glared at him with unconcealed fury.
“It’s easy enough to see that it isn’t your sister that’s lying at death’s door! You mightn’t be so cool about it then.”