“Exactly. If, as is most probable, they were in bed and also know nothing about it, we arrive at the conclusion that nobody does. Well, he couldn’t have dealt himself that wound on the forehead. So either the assailant came from outside, in which case there’ll be some trace on window or door and it’s up to us to find it—or he came from inside, in which case we’ve listened to a good many lies this morning. There is a third alternative,” Humblethorne added slowly, “and that is that the murderer came from outside, but was let in: there might be no trace then, but there would be somebody who knows a good deal more than he has any idea of telling us. Well, it’s a nice little problem, Birts. Don’t get talking to anybody, whatever you do, and keep a sharp look out, especially in the hall, and don’t let a thing more be moved till I come back. I shan’t be long.” “Very good, sir,” answered Birts submissively. “Damn that man!” said Humblethorne to himself as he walked on alone. “There may have been nothing to see; there may have been a lot—either seems equally probable. But what a mug!” Then apparently irrelevantly he added, “Now I wonder what Mr. Castle possesses in the way of shoe leather?” CHAPTER V Upstairs Whilst Humblethorne was thus pursuing his investigations in the hall with that unruffled air of patient determination which had threatened seriously to upset the equanimity of the overwrought secretary, Evelyn Temple was upstairs in her friend’s room, sitting beside her whilst she slept. Celia had consented to stay in bed, but it had taxed all Evelyn’s influence to achieve so much. The news of her father’s sudden and terrible end had worked on her, goading her to aimless restlessness like a spur, and seemed a far acuter sorrow than Evelyn would have imagined had her imagination ever run into such a morbid channel. As she sat holding her friend’s hand, without the comforting strength of which Celia seemed unable to try to get the rest she so obviously needed, Evelyn went over in her mind the events of the night. An insistent knocking had mingled itself with the staging of her dream until it drowned the dream altogether and she woke to hear some one knocking in actual fact on her door, shaking it with irregular violence. As she started up she heard Philip Castle’s voice—at least it sounded strangely unlike his and yet could belong to no one else—telling her to open it; she flung on a dressing-gown and obeyed, and found Philip standing outside, his face working with some strong emotion, saying in a low, uncertain tone, “I thought I should wake the whole house before I made you hear. He’s dead!” She was still so little awake that she could only stare in uncomprehending amazement and answer, “What are you saying?” “Sir Roger. He’s dead. In the hall,” he said jerkily. “Sir Roger dead! Impossible!” she gasped. “It’s true.” “Philip! It can’t be!”