He nodded shortly to Greve, and with a tread that shook the room strode across to where Hartley Parrish was lying dead. In the meantime a harassed-looking man with a short grey beard, wearing a shabby frock coat, had slipped into the room behind the Inspector. He approached Greve.
“Dr. Romain?” he queried, peering through his gold spectacles, “the butler said ...”
“No, my name is Greve,” answered Robin. “I am staying in the house. This is Dr. Romain.”
He motioned to the door. Dr. Romain came bustling into the room.
“Glad to see you here so promptly, Inspector,” he said. “A shocking business, very. Is this the doctor? I am Dr. Romain ...”
Dr. Redstone bowed with alacrity.
“A great privilege, sir,” he said staidly. “I have followed your work....”
But the other did not let him finish.
“Shot through the heart ... instantaneous death ... severe haemorrhage ... the pistol is there ... in his hand. A man with everything he wanted in the world ... I can’t understand it. ’Pon my soul, I can’t!”
The Inspector, who had been kneeling by the corpse, motioned with his head to the village doctor. Dr. Redstone went to him and began a cursory examination of the body. The Inspector rose.