Nobody seemed to be around, although it was nearly nine o'clock, and I walked into the library. There I found Chalmers Warriner bending over a large glazed case which stood in a remote corner of the room.
"Good morning," he smiled. "I've been amusing myself in looking over the collection of butterflies and moths made by your predecessor, old Richard Hildebrand. I believe it is considered valuable."
I glanced carelessly at the rows of inanimate insects fixed in their painful museum attitudes. There can be no quarrelling with tastes, but mine do not run in this direction. I made some perfunctory assent to Warriner's glowing encomiums upon the quality of Uncle Richard's magnum opus (it seems that our good Chalmers is himself an amateur of distinction in entomological science), and then haled him off for breakfast.
Quite naturally we drifted back to the library. It was the pleasantest and most homelike room in the house, a characteristic that persisted for all that the shadow of a possible tragedy still rested there. But after all, men must die somewhere, some time, and it would be impracticable to transform every death chamber into a mortuary chapel. Death is a natural process; why try to invest it with unnatural terror. "My dear," said a very old woman to her blooming goddaughter, "you will some day come to know that old age needs and desires death just as youth needs and desires sleep."
Warriner started immediately upon a close and systematic examination of the apartment and its appurtenances. From his pocket he drew a geologist's hammer and a slender rod of steel, and for nearly an hour he occupied himself in probing the wainscoting and walls and in making test knocks. I had expected to see him give particular attention to the secret passage behind the fireplace, but he ignored it entirely. I expressed some surprise.
"It's told me already all it had to tell," he answered, and did not vouchsafe any further elucidation of his pronouncement. Nor did I ask for it; I realized that a man should be allowed to work in his own way.
Finally, Warriner asked me to sit down in the fixed revolving chair that stood before the great, flat-topped library desk. I did so with some inward reluctance, for this was the seat par excellence of the master of "Hildebrand Hundred"; from this very coign of vantage Francis Graeme had toppled to his death. But as well now as ever, and accordingly I complied with the request.
At Warriner's further suggestion I bent forward as though engaged in writing. Suddenly he appeared from behind the screen of stamped Spanish leather which stood between the table and the door leading to the great hall; instantly, I became aware of his presence; involuntarily I looked up.
"Not so easy to surprise a man from this side, even if he were engaged in writing or study," mused Warriner as he walked over to the fireplace.
"Now suppose I had entered from this secret postern or side door," he went on. "I should have no particular difficulty in stealing up behind you and striking a fatal blow."