The body was untouched, though the clothes were rumpled and twisted. The right arm was outstretched, the rigid fingers of the hand resting among the pots of fern which filled the fireplace. The left arm was doubled under the body. Anthony, having gazed his fill, rose to his feet. As he did so, Boyd re-entered. He looked flushed and not a little annoyed. Anthony turned to him, raising his eyebrows. “Only a bit more trouble with some of these newspaper fellows, sir. But thank the Lord, I’ve got rid of ’em now. Told ’em I’d give ’em a statement to-night. What they’d say if they knew you were here—and why—God knows. There’ll be a row after the case is over, but there you are. Miss Hoode’s agreeable to you, and I don’t blame her, but she won’t hear of any of the others being let in. I don’t blame her for that either.” He nodded towards the body. “What d’you make of it, sir?” “Shocking messy kill,” Anthony said. “You’re right, sir, But what about—things in general, so to speak?” Anthony looked round the room. It bore traces of disturbance. Two light chairs had been over-turned. Books and papers from the desk strewed the floor. The grandfather clock, which should have stood sentinel on the left of the door as one entered it, had fallen, though not completely. It lay face-downwards at an angle of some forty-five degrees with the floor, the upper half of its casing supported by the back of a large sofa. “Struggle?” said Anthony. “Yes,” said Boyd. “Queer struggle,” said Anthony. He sauntered off on a tour of the room. Boyd watched him curiously as he halted before the sofa, dropped on one knee, and peered up at the face of the reclining clock. He looked up at Boyd. “Stopped at ten-forty-five. That make the murder fit in with the times the people in the house have told you?” “Yes, sir.” “When are you going to have the room tidied?” “Any time now. We’ve got the photos.” “Right.” Anthony got to his feet. “Let us, Boyd, unite our strength and put grand-dad on his feet.” Between them they raised the clock. Anthony opened the case and set the pendulum swinging. A steady tick-tock began at once. Anthony looked at his watch. “Stopped exactly twelve hours ago, did grandfather,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to be damaged, though.” “No, sir. It takes a lot to put those old clocks out of order.” Anthony went back to the front of the sofa and stood looking down at the carpet. “No finger-prints, you said?” “Except on the wood-rasp, absolutely none but those of the deceased, sir. I’ve dusted nearly every inch of the room with white or black. All I got for my pains were four good prints of the deceased’s thumb and forefinger. They’re easy enough to tell—very queer-shaped fingers and a long scar on the ball of his right thumb.” Anthony changed the subject. “What time did you get here, Boyd?” “About four this morning. We came by car. I made some preliminary inquiries, questioned some of the people, and went down to the village at about eight.”