“ ‘Cock Robin,’ you mean. Well, well! With such a name what could the beggar expect?” He appeared wholly unmoved by the news. “Who, or what, returned him to the elements?”
“As to who it was, we don’t know.” It was Markham who answered, in a tone of reproach for the other’s levity. “But Mr. Robin was killed with an arrow through the heart.”
“Most fitting.” Arnesson sat down on the arm of a chair and extended his long legs. “What could be more appropriate than that Cock Robin should die from an arrow shot from the bow of——”
“Sigurd!” Belle Dillard cut him short. “Haven’t you joked enough about that? You know that Raymond didn’t do it.”
“Of course, sis.” The man looked at her somewhat wistfully. “I was thinking of Mr. Robin’s ornithological progenitor.” He turned slowly to Markham. “So it’s a real murder mystery, is it—with a corpse, and clews, and all the trappings? May I be entrusted with the tale?”
Markham gave him a brief outline of the situation, to which he listened with rapt interest. When the account was ended he asked:
“Was there no bow found on the range?”
“Ah!” Vance, for the first time since the man’s arrival, roused himself from seeming lethargy, and answered for Markham. “A most pertinent question, Mr. Arnesson.—Yes, a bow was found just outside of the basement window, barely ten feet from the body.”
“That of course simplifies matters,” said Arnesson, with a note of disappointment. “It’s only a question now of taking the finger-prints.”
“Unfortunately the bow has been handled,” explained Markham. “Professor Dillard picked it up and brought it into the house.”