“Where am I? Whose room is this?”
“This is a room we keep closed, sir.”
“Why?”
“The master killed himself here, the mistress locked the door and gave me the key; she ordered me not to open it until she came again. She didn’t come.”
“Where is she?”
“In Paris, sir.”
“He killed himself and she went to Paris?”
“Yes sir, shot himself. He was a fine man, sir, a very fine man. When I came in to announce dinner, he was lying on that sofa where you are, the blood pouring out.”
Floyd was on his feet, quite sober now. There were heavy dark stains on the gray rep. The man answered Floyd’s questioning look.
“That’s blood, sir, and this and this.” The gray rug was stained in dark red; there were splashes of it on the white wall.