But before Markham could answer Vance lifted his hand for silence, and leaned forward in a listening attitude.
“Oh, Sproot!” he called. “Step in here a moment.”
The old butler appeared at once, calm and subservient, and waited with a vacuously expectant expression.
“Really, y’ know,” said Vance, “there’s not the slightest need for you to hover solicitously amid the draperies of the hallway while we’re busy in here. Most considerate and loyal of you; but if we want you for anything we’ll ring.”
“As you desire, sir.”
Sproot started to go, but Vance halted him.
“Now that you’re here you might answer one or two questions.”
“Very good, sir.”
“First, I want you to think back very carefully, and tell me if you observed anything unusual when you locked up the house last night.”
“Nothing, sir,” the man answered promptly. “If I had, I would have mentioned it to the police this morning.”
“And did you hear any noise or movement of any kind after you had gone to your room? A door closing, for instance?”
“No, sir. Everything was very quiet.”
“And what time did you actually go to sleep?”
“I couldn’t say exactly, sir. Perhaps about twenty minutes past eleven, if I may venture to make a guess.”
“And were you greatly surprised when Miss Sibella woke you up and told you a shot had been fired in Mr. Chester’s room?”
“Well, sir,” Sproot admitted, “I was somewhat astonished, though I endeavored to conceal my emotions.”
“And doubtless succeeded admirably,” said Vance dryly. “But what I meant was this: did you not anticipate something of the kind happening again in this house, after the other shootings?”
He watched the old butler sharply, but the man’s lineaments were as arid as a desert and as indecipherable as an expanse of sea.
“If you will pardon me, sir, for saying so, I don’t know precisely what you mean,” came the colorless answer. “Had I anticipated that Mr. Chester was to be done in, so to speak, I most certainly would have warned him. It would have been my duty, sir.”
“Don’t evade my question, Sproot.” Vance spoke sternly. “I asked you if you had any idea that a second tragedy might follow the first.”
“Tragedies very seldom come singly, sir, if I may be permitted to say so. One never knows what will happen next. I try not to anticipate the workings of fate, but I strive to hold myself in readiness——”
“Oh, go away, Sproot—go quite away,” said Vance. “When I crave vague rhetoric I’ll read Thomas Aquinas.”
“Yes, sir.” The man bowed with wooden courtesy, and left us.
His footsteps had scarcely died away when Doctor Doremus strode in jauntily.
“There’s your bullet, Sergeant.” He tossed a tiny cylinder of discolored lead on the drawing-room table. “Nothing but dumb luck. It entered the fifth intercostal space and travelled diagonally across the heart, coming out in the post-axillary fold at the anterior border of the trapezius muscle, where I could feel it under the skin; and I picked it out with my pen-knife.”
“All that fancy language don’t worry me,” grinned Heath, “so long’s I got the bullet.”
He picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand, his eyes narrowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. Then, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he took out two other bullets, and laid them beside the first. Slowly he nodded, and extended the sinister exhibits to Markham.
“There’s the three shots that were fired in this house,” he said. “They’re all .32-revolver bullets—just alike. You can’t get away from it, sir: all three people here were shot with the same gun.”
CHAPTER X
THE CLOSING OF A DOOR
(Friday, November 12; 9.30 a. m.)
As Heath spoke Sproot passed down the hall and opened the front door, admitting Doctor Von Blon.
“Good morning, Sproot,” we heard him say in his habitually pleasant voice. “Anything new?”
“No, sir, I think not.” The reply was expressionless. “The District Attorney and the police are here.—Let me take your coat, sir.”
Von Blon glanced into the drawing-room, and, on seeing us, halted and bowed. Then he caught sight of Doctor Doremus, whom he had met on the night of the first tragedy.
“All, good morning, doctor,” he said, coming forward. “I’m afraid I didn’t thank you for the assistance you gave me with the young lady the other night. Permit me to make amends.”
“No thanks needed,” Doremus assured him. “How’s the patient getting on?”
“The wound’s filling in nicely. No sepsis. I’m going up now to have a look at her.” He turned inquiringly to the District Attorney. “No objection, I suppose.”
“None whatever, doctor,” said Markham. Then he rose quickly. “We’ll come along, if you don’t mind. There are a few questions I’d like to ask Miss Ada, and it might be as well to do it while you’re present.”
Von Blon gave his consent without hesitation.
“Well, I’ll be on my way—work to do,” announced Doremus breezily. He lingered long enough, however, to shake hands with all of us; and then the front door closed on him.
“We’d better ascertain if Miss Ada has been told of her brother’s death,” suggested Vance, as we went up the stairs. “If not, I think that task logically devolves on you, doctor.”
The nurse, whom Sproot had no doubt apprised of Von Blon’s arrival, met us in the upper hall and informed us that, as far as she knew, Ada was still ignorant of Chester’s murder.
We found the girl sitting up in bed, a magazine lying across her knees. Her face was still pale, but a youthful vitality shone from her eyes, which attested to the fact that she was much stronger. She seemed alarmed at our sudden appearance, but the sight of the doctor tended to reassure her.
“How do you feel this morning, Ada?” he asked with professional geniality. “You remember these gentlemen, don’t you?”
She gave us an apprehensive look; then smiled faintly and bowed.
“Yes, I remember them. . . . Have they—found out anything about—Julia’s death?”
“I’m afraid not.” Von Blon sat down beside her and took her hand. “Something else has happened that you will have to know, Ada.” His voice was studiously sympathetic. “Last night Chester met with an accident——”
“An accident—oh!” Her eyes opened wide, and a slight tremor passed over her. “You mean. . . .” Her voice quavered and broke. “I know what you mean! . . . Chester’s dead!”
Von Blon cleared his throat and looked away.
“Yes, Ada. You must be brave and not let it—ah—upset you too much. You see——”
“He was shot!” The words burst from her lips, and a look of terror overspread her face. “Just like Julia and me.” Her eyes stared straight ahead, as if fascinated by some horror which she alone could see.
Von Blon was silent, and