“There isn’t one in the house, sir,” she said. “Sir James had it taken away. He was always being rung up.”
Collins was getting impatient. “Send one of your men for a doctor, then, the old woman is no good. There are plenty of them round here. Hurry, man, it may be life or death.”
Sinclair dashed down the steps, and called the man on duty. He returned breathless.
Collins had dragged two large mats to the door of the library, and was carefully spreading one on the floor. The two men entered, and placed the second mat beyond the first.
“On your knees,” he said in a whisper.
They approached the figure in the chair.
One glance was sufficient. Even in the semi-darkness they could see an ugly mark on the side of the head from which a very thin trickle of blood was coming.
“A bullet hole,” said Sinclair, who was versed in these matters. “He’s been shot.”
“Hum,” said Collins, “wait for the doctor. Meanwhile I will have some light.” With the utmost precautions he moved his rugs to the window, and pulled up the blinds.
The room was beautifully furnished, for Sir James was a man of taste and had the means to gratify it.