“Only servants, besides those I’ve mentioned. None of them been here long except Fairlie and the cook. Sir Roger used to upset them a bit, you know; he was rough with his tongue when put out. But there’s nothing against any of them: footman seems an ordinary sort of lad. Comes from Southhurst, that’s nine miles away; I can easily find out all about him.” Whilst they had been talking, Humblethorne had been taking in the hall with a steady general scrutiny; and now expressed himself ready for a more particular examination. They moved accordingly to the spot at which the body had been found; and Birts carefully removed the sheet which had been covering it. “You’ll hear the facts from Mr. Castle yourself, of course,” he said; “but Sir Roger was lying just here on his right side, with his head here.” He indicated the marble just below the left-hand bottom corner of the stairs. “When did you see it?” asked Humblethorne, gazing intently at the tell-tale stains which, spreading across the marble, had soaked into the edge of the carpet. A heavy silver cigarette box of Indian workmanship, adorned with richly embossed figures, lay with cigarettes scattered round it just at the foot of the stairs and a little to the left side: further to the left, a couple of yards away beyond the stains, lay a heavy stick. “About half-past five this morning.” “Not till then.” Humblethorne looked up quickly. “No; I was only told of the crime at twenty past four. Alfred, that’s the footman, came on a bicycle.” “And the body was found about one—a long interval, Birts; much might happen in that time. Has anything besides the body been moved that you know of?” “Well, sir, some of these cigarettes were lying on the stairs. I let Mr. Castle move them; he asked if he might and I didn’t see no harm; they were on the stairs so as to make it awkward to pass.” Humblethorne silently invoked heaven, so that Birts added hastily, “They’re all here, though, I counted them to make sure. But you’ll hear Mr. Castle yourself.” “I intend to; and next time, for the Lord’s sake don’t move or let anyone move a thing: It makes it hopeless.” Humblethorne knelt down and examined everything, especially the stick and cigarette box, with the utmost care. The box was lying close to where the dead man’s head had rested; the main bloodstain ran up to it and had darkly marked the centre of its lower edge: nothing else was noticeable except that one of its corners had been dented and the brightness of the dent seemed to show that this had been recently done. “Looks as if it had been used,” he remarked, pointing this out. “That’s the weapon all right,” returned Birts, confidently. “Struck him on the forehead and made a nasty hole.” “Where did it come from, d’you know?” “No, but I expect Fairlie’ll be able to tell us.” “Whose is the stick?” “That belonged to Sir Roger.”