He darted out, the butler, protesting, lumbering along behind him.
“Mr. Wright,” he panted as he ran, “you didn’t reelly ought ... If any one should come ...”
But Bruce Wright was already at the window. The butler found him leaning on the sill, peering with an air of frightened curiosity into the empty room.
“The glazier from Stevenish”—Bude’s voice breathed the words hoarsely in Wright’s ear—“is coming to-morrow morning to put the window in. He wouldn’t come to-day, him being a chapel-goer and religious. It was there we found poor Mr. Parrish—d’you see, sir, just between the window and the desk!”
But Bruce Wright did not heed him. His eyes were fixed on the big writing-desk, on the line of black japanned letter-trays set out in orderly array. Outside, the short winter afternoon was drawing in fast, and the light was failing. Dusky shadows within the library made it difficult to distinguish objects clearly.
A voice close at hand cried out sharply:
“Mr. Bude! Mr. Bu-u-ude!”
“They’re calling me!” whispered the butler in his ear with a tug at his sleeve; “come away, sir!”
But Bruce shook him off. He heard the man’s heavy tread on the gravel, then a door slam.
How dark the room was growing, to be sure! Strain his eyes as he might, he could not get a clear view of the contents of the letter-trays on the desk. But their high backs hid their contents from his eyes. Even when he hoisted himself on to the window-sill he could not get a better view.