"I'll send you a dose," he promised, "and don't you worry about your grandfather's having been murdered by any man. I've seen the body. Stuff and nonsense! Detective's an ass. Waiting for coroner, although I know he's one, too."
"I pray," Bobby answered listlessly, "that you're right."
"If there's any little thing I can do," Paredes offered formally.
"No, no. Thanks," Bobby answered.
He went on to the library. He glanced with an unpleasant shrinking from the door of the enclosed staircase leading to the private hall just outside the room in which his grandfather lay dead. There was no fire here, but he wrapped himself in a rug and lay on the broad, high-backed lounge which was drawn close to the fireplace, facing it. His complete weariness conquered his premonitions, his feeling of helplessness. The entrance of Jenkins barely aroused him.
"Where are you, Mr. Robert?"
"Here," Bobby answered sleepily.
The butler walked to the lounge and looked over the back.
"To be sure, sir. I didn't see you here."
He held out a glass.