tured the murderer red-handed, but almost immediately he realized that her meaning was quite different.
Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.
“That’s a good job. What did he say?”
“He’s coming over at once. We are to ‘use the utmost discretion.’ ”
Her father made a sound of annoyance.
“That’s just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However, once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”
He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.
“And the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?” queried the doctor.
A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the former said with some dignity:
“Certainly. I said so just now.”
“I asked because you didn’t seem quite sure about it before,” explained Cartwright.
There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him reproachfully.
“I’ll take you to the Council Chamber,” he said more briskly.
They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear and darting sharp glances all round him as he went, much as though he expected to find a clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.
Lord Caterham took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, flinging it open. They all passed into a big room panelled in oak, with three long windows giving on the terrace. There was a long refectory table and a good many oak chests, and some beautiful old chairs. On the walls were various paintings of dead and gone Caterhams and others.
Near the left-hand wall, about half-way between the door and the window, a man was lying on his back, his arms flung wide.
Dr. Cartwright went over and knelt down by the body. The inspector strode across to the windows, and examined them in turn. The centre one was closed, but not fastened. On the steps outside were footprints leading up to the window, and a second set going away again.
“Clear enough,” said the inspector, with a nod. “But
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