“He gives this arrow as the cause of death?”
“Yes. There doesn’t seem to be any question about that, Mr. Landis.”
“Do you mean to say that Harrison was shot here in his own house with an arrow, and nobody knows who did it?”
“That’s the strange part of it! There were two women here in this room who saw him fall. But they can’t help us. That’s why I telephoned Headquarters.”
“There must be somebody in the household, or somebody who was here tonight, who knows how to shoot with a bow and arrow!” snapped Bernard. “Nine people out of ten don’t know how—couldn’t shoot straight.”
“We—we all shoot!” said Graham.
CHAPTER II
THE BLUNTED ARROW
In the rococo reception-room its recent owner still held the center of the stage, that dominance now one of arresting tragedy rather than of personality. He lay flat on his back, limp and motionless, cushioned in the pile of his own rich carpet. The glare of many bulbs from a gilt chandelier betrayed without mercy the heavy, self-indulgent, slightly distorted features. Death had robbed Harrison’s face of its dynamic vitality without lending it the dignity of peace.
Graham’s admission that everyone in the household could shoot with a bow and arrow had brought the eyes of Bernard and Landis from the dead man to the living. Aware of their swift attention, he hastened to explain.