“Pyne!” whispered Gray, pale now to the lips. “Do you understand, Seton? It’s Pyne! Look! He has been stabbed!”
Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained linen over the breast of Sir Lucien.
“Dead?” asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway.
“Yes.”
“You say, sir,” turning to Quentin Gray, “that this is Sir Lucien Pyne?”
“Yes.”
Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap. The odor of Seton’s cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which the place was laden.
“Burton!”
“Yes?”
“See if this telephone in the office is in order. It appears to be an extension from the outer room.”