The effect of this dignified pronouncement was somewhat marred by the sudden explosion of Thorpe’s flashlight. At the glare and puff of it, Joel crouched and turned his head with the swiftness of an animal.
“What is that?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing. He’s taking photographs.” Landis paused to nod at the expert as he carried his camera and flashpan past them toward the reception-room. Then he turned back to Joel.
“Can you tell us how many arrows the quiver contained?”
“It’s of no consequence and I have no idea,” answered Joel with a touch of impatience. “They are self-arrows, round steeled and with swine-back vanes, white-webbed. They are V-nocked and have short shaftments. I judge they are sheaf arrows as they have iron piles.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell us your movements since you entered the house this evening?”
Once roused, however, Joel was not so easily calmed.
“I cannot see how my movements are of any importance to my brother’s guests!” he retorted distantly.
“Oh, but they are,” said Landis. “We are not exactly guests; we are detectives. And your brother is dead!”