He hung up, and crossed to the divan for a lounging robe which he flung quickly and deftly over Blake’s body.
“Blake’s dead,” he said to Julian and Joel who had just put in an appearance. “The police are on their way. Meanwhile, if you will excuse me, I shall look the ground over. Seems to have been an impulsive affair,” he continued, “with the knife left behind.” He picked up the long, thin, bronze paper-knife, which lay, stained with blood, a little to the left of the body. There was also a woman’s lace handkerchief, which Belknap offered to Sydney.
“That is not mine,” she said quietly.
“Just as you say,” Belknap replied, thrusting it into his pocket. “We’ll soon know whose it is.”
John came to the door.
“Did you want me, sir?”
“I did, John. Will you round up everyone in the house, including the help. There has been a murder. Colonel Blake. The police will want you all for questioning. Not that most of you aren’t here already,” Belknap smiled at the room. Crawford had come in on Julian’s heels. Romany and Whittaker, however, were still absent.
Belknap bent to the body and examined rapidly and thoroughly.
“There’s the off chance we might find something, Mrs. Crawford,” he remarked. “If Blake, under cover of darkness, returned for a cachéd Diary and met his death because of it, the murderer may not have had time to relieve him before you, or shall we say I, appeared.”
Sydney made no answer; but her two lovely hands lifted from her lap in a little helpless gesture of futility.