Scream after scream broke from Mrs. Brewster. She was swaying upon her feet by the time Colonel McIntyre and his daughter Helen reached the library.
“Margaret! What is it?” McIntyre demanded. “Calm yourself, my darling.”
The frenzied woman shook off his soothing hand.
“See, see!” she cried and pointed with her torch.
“She means the Venetian casket,” explained Helen, who had paused before joining them to switch on the light.
Colonel McIntyre gazed in amazement at the piece of furniture; then catching sight of the blood-stain, he raised the small trap-door or peep hole, in the top of the oblong box which stood breast high, supported on a beautifully carved base.
There was a breathless pause; then McIntyre unceremoniously jerked the electric torch from Mrs. Brewster's nervous fingers and turned its rays of the interior of the casket. Stretched at full length lay the figure of a man, and from a wound in his temple flowed a steady stream of blood.
“Good God!” McIntyre staggered back against Helen. “Grimes!”