“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did yourself.”
“I couldn’t see Mr. Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the corner where I’d seen Mr. Chacewater, I saw Mr. Foss lying on the floor. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it around my hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and I thought of it first of all.”
Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof.
“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr. Foss. By that time he was either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him, for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it struck me as queer that Mr. Chacewater had disappeared.”
“It didn’t occur to you that he might have slipped out of the room while your back was turned—when you were busy over Mr. Foss?” demanded Inspector Armadale in a hostile tone.
Marden shook his head.
“It didn’t occur to me at all, because I knew it hadn’t happened. No one could have got out of the room without my seeing him.”
“Go on with your story, please,” Sir Clinton requested.
“There’s nothing more to tell. I kept shouting ‘Murder!’ and I searched the room here while I was doing it. I found nothing.”
“Was the safe door closed when you saw it first?” Sir Clinton inquired.