“Only the other day,” she said, in a strained voice, “we were all on the archery range down-stairs; and Raymond was just preparing to shoot a single American Round, when Joseph opened the basement door and stepped out on the range. There really wasn’t any danger, but Sigurd—Mr. Arnesson, you know—was sitting on the little rear balcony watching us; and when I cried ‘He! He!’ jokingly to Joseph, Sigurd leaned over and said: ‘You don’t know what a chance you’re running, young man. You’re a Cock Robin, and that archer’s a sparrow; and you remember what happened to your namesake when a Mr. Sparrow wielded the bow and arrow’—or something like that. No one paid much attention to it at the time. But now! . . .” Her voice trailed off into an awed murmur.
“Come, Belle; don’t be morbid.” Professor Dillard spoke consolingly, but not without impatience. “It was merely one of Sigurd’s ill-timed witticisms. You know he’s continually sneering and jesting at realities: it’s about the only outlet he has from his constant application to abstractions.”
“I suppose so,” the girl answered. “Of course, it was only a joke. But now it seems like some terrible prophecy.—Only,” she hastened to add, “Raymond couldn’t have done it.”
As she spoke the library door opened suddenly, and a tall gaunt figure appeared on the threshold.
“Sigurd!” Belle Dillard’s startled exclamation held an undeniable note of relief.
Sigurd Arnesson, Professor Dillard’s protégé and adopted son, was a man of striking appearance—over six feet tall, wiry and erect, with a head which, at first view, appeared too large for his body. His almost yellow hair was unkempt, like a schoolboy’s; his nose was aquiline; and his jowls were lean and muscular. Though he could not have been over forty, there was a net-work of lines in his face. His expression was sardonically puckish; but the intense intellectual passion that lighted his blue-gray eyes belied any superficiality of nature. My initial reaction to his personality was one of liking and respect. There were depths in the man—powerful potentialities and high capabilities.
As he entered the room that afternoon, his searching eyes took us all in with a swift, inquisitive glance. He nodded jerkily to Miss Dillard, and then fixed the old professor with a look of dry amusement.
“What, pray, has happened in this three-dimensional house? Wagons and populace without: a guardian at the portals . . . and when I finally overcame the Cerberus and was admitted by Pyne, two plainclothes men hustled me up here without ceremony or explanation. Very amusing, but disconcerting. . . . Ah! I seem to recognize the District Attorney. Good morning—or rather, afternoon—, Mr. Markham.”
Before Markham could return this belated greeting Belle Dillard spoke.
“Sigurd, please be serious.—Mr. Robin has been killed.”