“Heatheringham’s missing. What in thunder are you up to?”
Then I saw something limned against the dark expanse of the central window of the Hall: the shape of a man who leaned heavily against the window-frame, looking out to the lawn. The moment my eyes had distinguished him, I knew it was Heatheringham. But he was awfully still! Why hadn’t he heard my shout?
“Heatheringham!” I called, and was shocked how strained the syllables crept from my lips. “Heather—”
“Where is he? Do you see him?” demanded Crofts, pressing to the door. “Why didn’t you light up—good God!”
He had switched on the electricity. From outside, beyond the window, came cry upon excited cry when the form of the detective was revealed by the blazing chandelier. But we who were behind Harry Heatheringham could see why he did not answer us, why he did not move. There was a gaping wound at the base of his brain, and the whole back of his trim grey coat was black with blood.
“Lawks!” cried Soames, and seemed about to faint.
Persons were rushing in from outside now, through the french windows. Doctor Aire took one look at the wound, and his face was filled with the most complete astonishment. His little dark eyes came out of their hiding-places, and even his tobacco-leaf complexion went several shades wan.
“Keep the women away,” he snapped at Soames, “and don’t let Maryvale come in here.”
“This is horrible, horrible,” Crofts kept saying.
“Is—is he dead?” asked Bob Cullen timidly, but no one smiled.