Ethelwynn had taken her sister to a friend in the vicinity, accompanied by the nurse and the cook. The house was now in the possession of the police, and it had already become known in the neighbourhood that old Mr. Courtenay was dead. In all probability early passers-by, men on their way to work, had noticed a constable in uniform enter or leave, and that had excited public curiosity. I hoped that Ambler Jevons would not delay, for I intended that he should be first in the field. If ever he had had a good mystery before him this certainly was one. I knew how keen was his scent for clues, and how carefully and ingeniously he worked when assisting the police to get at the bottom of any such affair.
He came a little after nine in hot haste, having driven from Hammersmith in a hansom. I was upstairs when I heard his deep cheery voice crying to the inspector from Scotland Yard:
“Hulloa, Thorpe. What’s occurred? My friend Doctor Boyd has just wired to me.”
“Murder,” responded the inspector. “You’ll find the doctor somewhere about. He’ll explain it all to you. Queer case—very queer case, sir, it seems.”
“Is that you, Ambler?” I called over the banisters. “Come up here.”
He came up breathlessly, two steps at a time, and gripping my hand, asked:
“Who’s been murdered?”
“Old Mr. Courtenay.”
“The devil!” he ejaculated.
“A most mysterious affair,” I went on. “They called me soon after three, and I came down here, only to find the poor old gentleman stone dead—stabbed to the heart.”