“Where’s the body?”
Graham turned and led them through the doorway from which he had emerged. They found themselves in a small, brilliantly lighted reception-room furnished with polished console tables and stiff gold chairs.
Toward the far side of the room, the pale gray carpet bore a large, irregular stain of moisture from which bits of broken glass caught the light. Immediately in front of them a big man lay sprawled on his back, his arms outflung, his feet pointing toward the open door which led into the library. A local policeman stood guard over the body.
Drawing nearer, the detectives saw that the dead face still bore the imprint of emotion. On the gross, slightly sunken features rested the shadow of a furious amazement. The evening clothes had been disarranged and approximately replaced.
“How was he killed?” rumbled Bernard.
“He was shot in the back—with an arrow.”
“An arrow!” Bernard frowned his incredulity.
“Yes. The broken shaft of it is still under him.”
“Has the body been moved then?” asked Landis.
“The doctor examined it and so did the coroner. But they replaced him exactly as they found him. The doctor is still here, waiting for you in the library.”