“H’m, there seems to be plenty of blood about,” remarked Humblethorne, rising from his knees. “Look here, and here.” He pointed first to the left-hand corner of the stone stairs, and then to the centre of the carpet covering the second and fourth steps, on each of which a faint, but traceable, oblong stain could be seen. “This,” said Birts, referring to the first, “is close to his head and he hit it falling—there’s a cut on the side to fit. But I don’t know what the others are.” “Footsteps, Birts, footsteps. Many a man’s been hung on less. That’s the ball of the foot of a person we want going upstairs, or I’m much mistaken.” “Or coming down, it might be?” “Possibly; but why should whoever it was come down with feet like that? No, going upstairs—and either very careless or very agitated. Let me see the body.” They passed into the smoking-room, where a policeman was on duty beside the covered body of the late owner of the house. Humblethorne knelt down and, removing the covering, looked long at the clean-shaven face of a man of about seventy-five, hard-featured in life and inexpressibly repellant in the rigidity of death; his eyes were wide open and seemed to stare out of the scowling face with a cold malignity. The features were slightly distorted, whether with fear, anger, or other emotion it was impossible to say. On his left temple was a deep, ugly, triangular wound, an inch in diameter, and the congealed blood lay dark and sinister across his forehead; on the right side of his head, just above and in front of the ear, was a short perpendicular cut, made, to judge by the slight flattening of the face on that side, by some heavy object striking against it with considerable force or by a fall upon a sharp and unyielding substance. He was in a smoking-jacket and ordinary evening dress; his watch and chain was in its place, and there was a sovereign and some odd silver in his pockets. “Doctor seen him?” inquired Humblethorne, rising at last from his examination and replacing the sheet. “Yes, sir. Arrived soon after me. He said death had taken place some hours previously; didn’t like to be more definite. Either of the two wounds would be sufficient to cause death, he said, especially the one on the side of the head; skull’s fractured. He gave it as his opinion that that was caused by striking the edge of the stairs in his fall.” “Probably,” agreed Humblethorne. “Well, now I should like to hear what Mr. Castle has to say. And that I think I can do better in the hall.” CHAPTER IV A Mystery in the Night Humblethorne crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell, which was answered in a few moments by the appearance of an old man whose quiet, impassive respectability betrayed no hint either of the tragedy which overshadowed the house or of his own want of sleep. He allowed himself to notice the presence of a stranger by an almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows before turning to Birts and saying—