“Drop it, man, drop it,” Anthony groaned.
Boyd laughed. “Very well, sir. Now I’ll go and see about having the body moved upstairs.”
“And I,” said Anthony, “shall think—here or in the garden. By the way, when’s the inquest?”
“To-morrow afternoon, here,” said Boyd, and left the room.
Anthony ruminated. This study of Hoode’s, he reflected, was curious, being in itself the end of the long wing of the house and having, therefore, window or windows in all three sides. As Boyd had said, only one of these windows was open, the farthest from the door of the three which looked out upon the terraced gardens and the river at their foot. All the others—two in the same wall, one in the end wall, and two overlooking the drive—were shut and latched on the inside. The open one was open top and bottom.
Anthony looked at it, then back at the writing-table. He seemed dissatisfied, for he next walked to the window, surveyed the room from there, and then crossed to the swivel-chair at the writing-table and sat down. From here he again peered at the open window, which was then in front of him and slightly to his left.
He was still in the chair when Boyd came back, bringing with him a policeman in plain clothes and a man in the leather uniform of a chauffeur. Anthony did not move; did not answer when Boyd spoke to him.
The body covered and lifted, the grim little party, Boyd leading, made for the door. As they steered carefully through it, the grandfather clock began to strike the hour. Its deep ring had, it seemed to Anthony, a note ominous and mournful.
The door clicked to behind the men and the shrouded thing they carried. The clock struck again.
“Good for you, grandfather,” muttered Anthony, without turning in his chair to look. “I wish to High Heaven you could talk for a moment or two.”