Boyd began his tale. “I’ve questioned every one in the house except Miss Hoode,” he said. “I’ll tackle her when she’s better, probably this afternoon. But beyond the fact that she was the first one to see the body, I don’t think she’ll be much use. Now the facts. After supp—dinner, that is, last night, Mr. Hoode, Miss Hoode, Mrs. Mainwaring and Sir Arthur Digby-Coates played bridge in the drawing-room. They finished the meal at eight-thirty, began the cards at nine and finished the game at about ten. Miss Hoode then said good-night and went to her bedroom; so did the other lady. Sir Arthur went to his own sitting-room to work, and the deceased retired to his study for the same purpose.” “No originality!” said Anthony plaintively. “It’s all exactly the same. Ever read detective stories, Boyd? They’re always killed in their studies. Always! Ever notice that?” Boyd—perhaps a little shocked by the apparent levity—only shook his head. He went on: “That’s the study door over there, sir, the only door on the right side of the hall, you see. That little room just opposite to it—the one you climbed into this morning—is a sort of den for that old boy Poole, the butler. Poole says that from about nine-forty-five until the murder was discovered he sat in there, reading and thinking. _And_ he had the door open all the time. _And_ he was facing the door. _And_ he swears that no one entered the study by that door during the whole of that time.” “Mr. Poole is most convenient,” murmured Anthony. He was lying back, his legs stretched out before him. Boyd looked at him curiously. But the thin face was in shadow, and the greenish eyes were veiled by their lids. A silence fell. Anthony broke it. “Going to arrest Poole just yet?” he asked. Boyd smiled. “No, sir. I suppose you’re thinking Poole knows too much. Got his story too pat, so to speak.” “Something of the sort. Never mind, though. On with the tale, my Boyd.” “No, Poole’s not my man. By all accounts he was devoted to his master. That’s one thing. Another is that his right arm’s practically useless with rheumatism and that he’s infirm—with an absolute minimum of physical strength, so to speak. That proves he’s not the man, even if other things were against him, which they’re not. You’ll know why when I take you into that room there, sir.” The detective nodded his head in the direction of the study door. “Well,” he continued, “taking Poole, for the present at any rate, as a reliable witness, we know that the murderer didn’t enter by the door. The chimney’s impossible because it’s too small and the register’s down; so he must have got in through the window.” “Which of how many?” Anthony asked, still in that sleepy tone. “The one farthest from the door and facing the garden, sir. The room’s got windows on all three sides—three on the garden side, one in the end wall, and two facing the drive; but only one of ’em—the one I said—was open.” Anthony opened his eyes. “But how sultry!” he complained.