As she uttered those words, Felix entered the room, saying in an agitated voice—
“May I speak with you alone, m’sieur?”
His master started violently, and, rising, went forth into the hall, where the butler, his face scared and white, whispered—
“Something terrible has occurred, m’sieur! Davis, the groom, has just found a gentleman lying dead in the drive outside. He’s been murdered, m’sieur!”
“Murdered!” gasped Poland breathlessly. “Who is he?”
“The gentleman who called upon you three-quarters of an hour ago. He’s lying dead—out yonder.”
“Where’s a lantern? Let me go and see!” cried Poland. And a few moments later master and man were standing with the groom beside the lifeless body of Henri Guertin, the great detective, the terror of all French criminals. The white countenance, with its open, staring eyes, bore a horrified expression, but the only wound that could be distinguished was a deep cut across the palm of the right hand, a clean cut, evidently inflicted by a keen-edged knife.
Davis, on his way in, had, he explained, stumbled across the body in the darkness, ten minutes before.
Philip Poland had knelt, his hand upon the dead man’s heart, when suddenly all three were startled by the sound of footsteps upon the gravel, and next moment two men loomed up into the uncertain light of the lantern.
One was tall and middle-aged, in dark tweeds and a brown hat of soft felt; the other, short and stout, wearing gold pince-nez.