“Young people anywhere about, Chilford?” he asked. “No? Then let Braxfield take us into some room for a minute or two—to ourselves.” He bent and whispered in the solicitor’s ear. “Some bad news.”
Chilford stared as if unable to understand the communication; he in his turn whispered to Braxfield; the old butler threw open a door and ushered the group into a dimly-lighted room, one of the many in Markenmore Court that were rarely used. He was closing the door on them when the Chief Constable called him back.
“Don’t go, Braxfield,” he said. “Come in—close the door. Am I right in supposing that your old master’s dead?” he continued, motioning the butler to join the group. “Mr. Fransemmery and I heard the death bell, so we thought——”
“Sir Anthony died in his sleep early this morning, sir,” replied Braxfield mournfully. “The exact time I couldn’t say.”
“Well, I want to ask you a question or two, Braxfield,” continued the Chief Constable. “Was Mr. Guy Markenmore here?”
“Here, sir? When his father died? No—no, he was not.”
“Has he been here? Was he here yesterday?”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir—Sir Guy as he is now, to speak correct—was here last night. He was here for a while—left about half-past ten, sir.”
“Left for where?”
“That I can’t exactly say, sir. He had a call to make on some one in the neighbourhood, but I don’t know who the person was. His intention, sir—Sir Guy’s—was to catch the early morning train for London at Mitbourne.”