“You say that when you burst open the door the key was in the lock on the inside and also that the French doors were shut and bolted?” Anthony leaned forward across the dinner table and pointed his query with keen interest. “Yes, Mr. Bathurst. Extraordinary though it may sound—the facts were so.” Anthony rubbed his hands together. “Most interesting,” he muttered, “most interesting. Go on.” “My poor father,” continued Stewart with evident distress, “was seated in his chair at his desk-table—his head on his hands—his skull badly smashed—he had been dead some hours—struck down in some foul, dastardly way from behind.” He stopped and tried to control his feelings, which were obviously beginning to master him. After a short interval of silence—sympathetically observed by the two others—he continued again. “Apparently he had been writing when he was attacked, for a pen had almost fallen from his hand and on the desk in front of him lay a sheet of note-paper. On it had been written the words, ‘Urgent in the morning, M. L.’” Anthony shot his second question across to the speaker. “In your father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?” “Beyond doubt, Mr. Bathurst.” Anthony waved to him to proceed. “In the left-hand pocket of my father’s dressing-gown was his revolver—loaded in five chambers only. None of us can remember hearing a shot during the night, so that we don’t know when the one shot was fired—in the night or on some previous occasion.” Anthony stopped him with his hand uplifted. “One minute, Mr. Stewart. Was it your father’s habit to carry firearms in the pocket of his dressing-gown? Have you ever known him to do it? Think carefully—this is most important.” “Well, of course, naturally, I don’t sleep with my father—I rarely see him after he has retired for the night—but I certainly wasn’t aware that he made a habit of carrying a revolver. It doesn’t surprise me, though, to know that he had a revolver pretty handy, because we house a number of very valuable things here—still—I’ll say this—I’ve never seen him with a revolver in his hand.” Anthony accepted the statement—then followed up with another question. “Your father was a right-handed man, of course, Mr. Stewart?” “Yes. Always. Doctor Gunner gave it as his opinion that he had been dead about twelve hours. That wasn’t quite possible, as he was alive at ten o’clock last night.” “Who saw him?” Stewart hesitated for a moment. “Two of us here can prove that my father was alive round about ten o’clock last night. I spoke to him about a quarter to ten, and Butterworth, the butler, spoke to him a few minutes after ten. My father gave Butterworth instructions to lock up about that time.” Bathurst nodded. “I see. So Butterworth was the last person to see your father alive—as far as is known?” “Yes. A Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here with my father last night. Butterworth saw him out about ten. When I spoke to my father at nine-forty-five the Colonel was with him then, in the library.”