Greve stood opposite the doctor in the centre of the library. He had switched on the light at the door as he had come in, and the room was flooded with soft light thrown by concealed lamps set around the cornice of the ceiling. “Look!” responded the doctor by way of answer and stepped aside to let the young man come up to the desk. “He has a pistol in his hand!” Robin Greve took a step forward and stopped dead. He gazed for an instant without speaking on the dead face of his host and rival. “Suicide!” It was an affirmation rather than a question, and the little doctor took it up. He was not a young man and the shock and the excitement were beginning to tell on his nerves. “I am not a police surgeon,” he said with some asperity; “in fact, I may say I have not seen a dead body since my hospital days. I ... I ... know nothing about these things. This is a matter for the police. They must be summoned at once. Where’s Bude?” Robin Greve turned quickly. “Get on to the police station at Stevenish at once, Bude,” he ordered. “Do you know the Inspector?” “Yessir,” the butler answered in a hollow voice. His hands were trembling violently, and he seemed to control himself with difficulty. “Mr. Humphries, sir!” “Well, ring him up and tell him that Mr. Parrish ... Hullo, what do all these people want?” There was a commotion at the door. Frightened faces were framed in the doorway. Outside there was the sound of a woman whimpering. A tall, dark young man in a tail coat came in quickly. He stopped short when he saw the solemn faces of the group at the desk. It was Parrish’s man, Jay. He stepped forward to the desk and in a frightened sort of way peered at the body as it lay on the floor. “Oh, sir,” he said breathlessly, addressing Greve, “what ever has happened to Mr. Parrish? It can’t be true ...” Greve put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to say it is true, Jay,” he answered. “He was very good to us all,” the valet replied in a broken voice. He remained by the desk staring at the body in a dazed fashion. “Who is that crying outside?” Greve demanded. “This is no place for women ...” “It’s Mrs. Heever, the housekeeper,” Bude answered. “Well, she must go back to her room. Send all those servants away. Jay, will you see to it? And take care that Lady Margaret and Miss Trevert don’t come in here, either.” “Sir Horace is with them, sir, in the lounge,” said Jay and went out. “I’ll go to them. I think I’d better,” exclaimed the doctor. “I shall be in the lounge when they want me. A dreadful affair! Dreadful!” The little doctor bustled out, leaving Greve and the butler alone in the room with the mortal remains of Hartley Parrish lying where he had fallen on the soft grey carpet. “Now, Bude,” said Greve incisively, “get on to the police at once. You’d better telephone from the servant’s hall. I’ll have a look round here in the meantime!” Bude stood for an instant irresolute. He glanced shrewdly at the young man.