The room was not overcrowded with furniture. An armchair or two stood by the fireplace; and there was a small table, bearing a typewriter, by the wall on the same side as the door. In the angle between the sash window and the fireplace stood a deep, black-covered settee. The most important piece of furniture was a large writing table in the exact centre of the room facing the sash window. The walls were lined with bookshelves. This was the picture that had flashed across Roger’s retentive brain as he stood in the little group outside the library door and listened to Major Jefferson’s curt, almost brutal announcement. With instinctive curiosity he wondered where the grim addition to the scene was lying. The next moment the same instinct had caused him to turn and scan the face of his hostess. Lady Stanworth had not screamed or fainted; she was not that sort of person. Indeed, beyond a slight and involuntary catching of her breath she betrayed little or no emotion. “Shot himself?” she repeated calmly. “Are you quite sure?” “I’m afraid there can be no doubt at all,” Major Jefferson said gravely. “He must have been dead for some hours.” “And you think I had better not go in?” “It’s not a pretty sight,” said the Major shortly. “Very well. But we had better telephone for a doctor in any case, I suppose. I will do that. Victor called in Doctor Matthewson when he had hay fever a few weeks ago, didn’t he? I’ll send for him.” “And the police,” said Jefferson. “They’ll have to be notified. I’ll do that.” “I can let them know at the same time,” Lady Stanworth returned, moving across the hall in the direction of the telephone. Roger and Alec exchanged glances. “I always said that was a wonderful woman,” whispered the former behind his hand, as they prepared to follow the Major into the library. “Is there anything I can do, sir?” asked the butler from the doorway. Major Jefferson glanced at him sharply. “Yes; you come in, too, Graves. It makes another witness.” The four men filed in silence into the room. The curtains were still drawn, and the light was dim. With an abrupt movement Jefferson strode across and pulled back the curtains from the French windows. Then he turned and nodded silently towards the big writing table. In the chair behind this, which was turned a little away from the table, sat, or rather reclined, the body of Mr. Stanworth. His right hand, which was dangling by his side almost to the floor, was tightly clenched about a small revolver, the finger still convulsively clasping the trigger. In the centre of his forehead, just at the base of his hair, was a little circular hole, the edges of which looked strangely blackened. His head lolled indolently over the top of the chair-back, and his wide-open eyes were staring glassily at the ceiling. It was, as Jefferson had said, not a pretty sight. Roger was the first to break the silence. “Well, I’m damned!” he said softly. “What on earth did he want to go and do that for?”