us exactly how you found him, Hancock.”
“I opened the door of Mr. Herapath’s private room, sir, to pull up the blinds and open the window. When I walked in I saw him lying across the hearth-rug. Then I noticed the—the revolver.”
“And of course that gave you a turn. What did you do? Go into the room?”
“No, sir! I shut the door again, went straight to the telephone and rang up the police-station. Then I waited at the front door till the inspector there came along.”
“Was the front door fastened as usual when you went to it at that time?”
“It was fastened as it always is, sir, by the latch. It was Mr. Herapath’s particular orders that it never should be fastened any other way at night, because he sometimes came in at night, with his latch-key.”
“Just so. Now these offices are quite apart and distinct from the rest of the building—mark that, inspector! There’s no way out of them into the building, nor any way out of the building into them. In fact, the only entrance into these offices is by the front door. Isn’t that so, Hancock?”
“That’s quite so, sir—only that one door.”
“No area entrance or side-door?”
“None, sir—nothing but that.”
“And the only tenants in here—these offices—at night are you and your wife, Hancock?”
“That’s all, sir.”
“Now, where are your rooms?”
“We’ve two rooms in the basement, sir—living-room and kitchen—and two rooms on the top floor—a bedroom and a bathroom.”
“On the top-floor. How many floors are there?”
“Well, sir, there’s the basement—then there’s this—then there’s two floors that’s used by the clerks—then there’s ours.”
“That’s to say there are two floors between your bedroom and this ground floor?”
“Yes, sir—two.”
“Very well. Now, about last night. What time did you and your wife go to bed?”
“Eleven o’clock, sir—half an hour later than usual.”
“You’d previously looked round, I suppose?”
“Been all round, sir—I always look into every room in the place last thing at night—thoroughly.”
“Are you and your wife sound sleepers?”
“Yes, sir—both of us. Good sleepers.”
“You heard no sound after you got to bed?”
“Nothing, sir—neither of us.”
“No recollection of hearing a revolver shot?—not even as if it were a long way off?”
“No, sir—we never heard anything—nothing unusual, at any rate.”
“You heard no sound of doors opening or being shut, nor of any conveyance coming to the door?”
“No, sir, nothing at all.”
“Well, one or two more questions, Hancock. You didn’t go into the room after first catching sight of the body? Just so—but you’d notice things, even in a hurried glance. Did you notice any sign of a struggle—overturned chair or anything?”
“No, sir. I did notice that Mr. Herapath’s elbow chair, that he always sat in at his desk, was pushed back a bit, and was a bit on one side as it were. That was all.”
“And the light—the electric light? Was that on?”
“No, sir.”
“Then all you can tell us comes to this—that you never heard anything, and had no notion of what was happening, or had happened, until you came down in the morning?”
“Just so, sir. If I’d known what was going on, or had gone on, I should have been down at once.”
Barthorpe nodded and turned to the coachman.
“Now, Mountain,” he said. “We want to hear your story. Be careful about your facts—what you can tell us is probably of the utmost importance.”
CHAPTER IV
THE PRESSMAN
The coachman, thus admonished, unconsciously edged his chair a little nearer to the table at which Barthorpe Herapath sat, and looked anxiously at his interrogator. He was a little, shrewd-eyed fellow, and it seemed to Selwood, who had watched him carefully during the informal examination to which Barthorpe had subjected the caretaker, that he had begun to think deeply over some new presentiment of this mystery which was slowly shaping itself in his mind.
“I understand, Mountain, that you fetched Mr. Herapath from the House of Commons last night?” began Barthorpe. “You fetched him in the brougham, I believe?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the coachman. “Mr. Herapath always had the brougham at night—and most times, too, sir. Never took kindly to the motor, sir.”
“Where did you meet him, Mountain?”
“Usual place, sir—in Palace Yard—just outside the Hall.”
“What time was that?”
“Quarter past eleven, exactly, sir—the clock was just chiming the quarter as he came out.”
“Was Mr. Herapath alone when he came out?”
“No sir. He came out with another gentleman—a stranger to me, sir. The two of ’em stood talking a bit a yard or two away from the brougham.”
“Did you hear anything they said?”
“Just a word or two from Mr. Herapath, sir, as him and the other gentleman parted.”
“What were they?—tell us the words, as near as you can remember.”
“Mr. Herapath said, ‘Have it ready for me tomorrow, and I’ll look in at your place about noon.’ That’s all, sir.”
“What happened then?”
“The other gentleman went off across the Yard, sir, and Mr. Herapath came to the brougham, and told me to drive him to the estate office—here, sir.”
“You drove him up to this door, I suppose?”
“No, sir. Mr. Herapath never was driven up to the door—he always got out of the brougham in the road outside and walked up the archway. He did that last night.”
“From where you pulled up could you see if there was any light in these offices?”
“No, sir—I pulled up just short of the entrance to the archway.”
“Did Mr. Herapath say anything to you when he got out?”
“Yes, sir. He said he should most likely be three-quarters of an hour here, and that I’d better put a rug over the mare and walk her about.”
“Then I suppose he went up the archway. Now, did you see anybody about the entrance? Did you see any person waiting as if to meet him? Did he meet anybody?”
“I saw no one, sir. As soon as he’d gone up the archway I threw a rug over the mare and walked her round and round the square across the road.”
“You heard and saw nothing of him until he came out again?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“And how long was he away from you?”
“Nearer an hour than three-quarters, sir.”
“Were you in full view of the entrance all that time?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t. Some of the time I was—some of it I’d my back to it.”
“You never saw any one enter the archway during