With a slight reproving click of the tongue, Peterson stepped forward. And then he saw the revolver-Mr. Craddock’s own revolver, the one he kept in the second drawer of his writing-table. And it lay on the hearth-rug a couple of yards away from Mr. Craddock’s outstretched left hand. And Mr. Craddock lay in a pool of blood. Mr. Craddock was dead.

The quiet Mr. Peterson let off a yell and went out of the flat and helter-skelter down the stairs calling for Rush. There was an interval of perhaps two minutes before they returned together, the porter having left the hall and gone down into the basement. By the time they reached the landing the door of Mr. Peter Renshaw’s flat was open and he was coming out of it, pulling on a dressing-gown as he came, while Miss Bingham, without her front, was hanging over the banisters half way down from the floor above and demanding in a high, persistent voice,

“What’s the matter? Oh dear-what’s the matter?”

Behind the door of No. 7 Miss Lee Fenton was wondering how soon she could open that door. Had there been enough noise to wake her, or hadn’t there? But if it was a question of waking, she oughtn’t to be dressed like this. She heard the sound of hurrying feet, and she heard Miss Bingham scream. She couldn’t stand the suspense another moment. She opened the door and came out upon the landing.

The door of Ross Craddock’s flat stood wide open. It had been most terrifyingly shut. Now it was most terrifyingly open. It drew her, and she went towards it, and over the threshold and into the hall.

Miss Bingham was in the hall, and for once she had nothing to say. She was leaning against the wall with her hand to her side and a sick, shocked look on her face. Lee went past her to the sitting-room door, where she came face to face with Peter. He said, “Don’t come in,” but she looked over his shoulder and saw that Rush and Peterson were there. Peterson was over by the writing-table with the telephone receiver in his hand. The ceiling light was on and all the curtains drawn.

Peter said, “Come away, Lee.” But how could she come away until she knew what Rush was looking at? He was standing right in the middle of the room, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring down at the floor-at someone lying on the floor-at Ross. And Ross was dead.

Of course she had known that all along.

Before Peter could stop her she said in that very clear voice of hers,

“I told you something dreadful had happened.”

Chapter XII

Mr. Craddock’s sitting-room had been restored to decency and order. The official photographer had come and gone. Everything that could possibly retain a finger-print had been duly examined and a record taken. The whole official routine had been gone through. Mr. Craddock’s body had been removed to the mortuary.

Inspector Lamb sat now at Mr. Craddock’s writing-table and fingered a gimcrack scarlet pen.

“How anyone could write with a thing like that!” he said in a tone of disgust. “Well, it’ll be you, not me, Abbott. And we’d better get on with those statements. It’s murder sure enough, and an inside job by the look of it. We’ll have the manservant first-what’s his name-Peterson?”

Inspector Lamb heaved himself out of his chair as he spoke. Hot-well, he would say it was going to be hot. Thunder presently as like as not. He was a stout man with a small, shrewd grey eye and a heavy jowl. Hair growing thin on the top, but with no grey in it. Very strong black hair.

Young Abbott was a different type. Flaxen hair sleeked back; tall, light figure; high bony nose, and colourless lashes. Public school by the look of him. He went out and came back with Peterson. The man was composed enough, but his sallow skin shone damp with sweat.

Abbott was now at the writing-table. On the other side of it, the side towards the room, two chairs were placed. The Inspector filled one handsomely. Peterson, when invited to occupy the other, sat down upon its forward edge and betrayed some nervousness. He gave his name as Matthew Peterson, and his age as thirty-eight. He had been with Mr. Craddock six years. He lived out, and came in daily from seven in the morning until-well, it just depended-he’d get away most days by seven in the evening. Mr. Craddock didn’t want him about after that. He preferred being private, as you might say.

Questions about Mr. Craddock’s habits. “Would you call them irregular?” Peterson didn’t think it was for him to say. Did Mr. Craddock drink? Well, he put away a bit, but it wouldn’t be very often that you’d see him drunk.

“Was he drunk last night?”

“Not when I left him, sir.”

“And that was?”

“A quarter past seven. I laid out his things and set the drinks ready on the small table in here, and he said that would be all, and I went home.”

“That was your usual practice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you set out in the way of drinks?”

“Decanter of whisky, siphon of soda, bottle of champagne, and two glasses.”

Detective Abbott looked up for a moment, then plied, not the scarlet pen, but one of his own.

“Two glasses-eh?” said the Inspector sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“And was that the usual thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You always left two glasses?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were they always used?”

“Not both of them-only once in a way, sir.”

“And were you in the habit of leaving champagne?”

For the first time Peterson hesitated. Then he said,

“No, sir-only when Mr. Craddock said so.”

“And he told you to leave it last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what did you make of that?”

Peterson hesitated again, and was prompted.

“Did you take it to mean that he was expecting a lady?”

“I suppose I did, sir.”

“H’m! How much whisky was there in the decanter?”

“It was full, sir.”

“Any idea how it got broken?”

“No, sir.”

The Inspector shifted in his chair.

“Well now, I want to talk about those footprints you said you saw in the hall.”

“I did see them, sir.”

“When you first came in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Regular footprints?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Wet, or dry?”

“Dry, sir.”

“You’re sure about that? How can you be sure?”

Peter cleared his throat.

“The light’s right overhead, sir, and as soon as I put it on, well, there were the footprints as plain as plain.”

“And they were a woman’s footprints?”

“That’s what I took them to be.”

“Well, what’s happened to them?”

“I don’t know, sir. I came on in here, and when I saw that Mr. Craddock was dead I ran down the stairs for Mr. Rush, and we came back together. And when I come to look for the footprints to show him, well, sir, they weren’t there, no more than what you saw for yourself, sir-a couple of smeared places just short of the rug on this side of the hall, and another over by the door, and the stains on the rug the same as I’d seen them the first time.”

The Inspector said “H’m!” Then, sharply, “Would you swear you saw those footprints the first time you came up?”

“Yes, sir, I would. It’s the truth, sir.”

“Would you swear you didn’t touch them?”

“Not the way you mean, sir. I don’t say I mightn’t have stepped on one of them accidental when I ran down for Mr. Rush. It was-well, it was an awful shock, sir. But stepping on a dry stain wouldn’t smear it like those footprints was smeared.”

“No,” said the Inspector. “And now-just how long were you away?”

Peterson looked anxious.

“It’s very hard to say when you’ve had that kind of a shock. I couldn’t get down quick enough. But Mr. Rush he wasn’t in the hall. He was downstairs making his wife a cup of tea. I had to go down after him.”

“Ah!” said the Inspector. “Mrs. Rush is bedridden, so I’m told.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever known her to be out of her bed?”