Bernard nodded assent and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to its feet, shuffled to the door with it, swung about and held it as nearly as possible erect, a limp and dreadful travesty of drunken somnolence.
“Now, Doctor,” said Landis sharply, “line up the wound if you can and see where it points. He must have been about in this position when he was shot.”
Doctor Stanford faced the body, felt for the wound in the back, took a pencil out of his pocket and held it perpendicularly against that wound so that it showed above the shoulder. Then, with one eye directly above the wound in the chest he squinted past the pencil down the library.
“Just about hits Sergeant Forbes,” he announced. “The arrow entered a trifle from the left and a trifle downward. But there’s no way to tell just how Harrison was facing when he got it.”
“We may be able to find out about that later,” said Landis with a touch of silk in his voice. “That’s all we need, I think. Wonder whether you’d mind dressing the body for the coroner.”
“All right! Lay him on the floor again.”
Landis and Bernard complied without comment. As they rose from their task a figure passing along the hall caught Bernard’s attention.
It was the butler, moving with dignified tread toward the front door. In a moment they heard voices. A short, sandy little man with red eyelids and rumpled hair appeared in the hall doorway and caught sight of Harrison’s body.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “A dreadful business! A dreadful, dreadful business! Now, who—”