The library door opened. A large, square-built, florid man in the braided uniform of a police inspector stood on the threshold of the room. Beside him was Bude who, with an air of dignity and respectful mourning suitably blended, waved him into the room. “The—ahem!—body is in here, Mr. Humphries, sir!” Inspector Humphries stepped quickly into the room. A little countryfied in appearance and accent, he had the careful politeness, the measured restraint, and the shrewd eye of the typical police officer. In thirty years’ service he had risen from village constable to be Inspector of county police. Slow to anger, rather stolid, and with an excellent heart, he had a vein of shrewd common sense not uncommonly found in that fast disappearing species, the English peasant. He nodded shortly to Greve, and with a tread that shook the room strode across to where Hartley Parrish was lying dead. In the meantime a harassed-looking man with a short grey beard, wearing a shabby frock coat, had slipped into the room behind the Inspector. He approached Greve. “Dr. Romain?” he queried, peering through his gold spectacles, “the butler said ...” “No, my name is Greve,” answered Robin. “I am staying in the house. This is Dr. Romain.” He motioned to the door. Dr. Romain came bustling into the room. “Glad to see you here so promptly, Inspector,” he said. “A shocking business, very. Is this the doctor? I am Dr. Romain ...” Dr. Redstone bowed with alacrity. “A great privilege, sir,” he said staidly. “I have followed your work....” But the other did not let him finish. “Shot through the heart ... instantaneous death ... severe haemorrhage ... the pistol is there ... in his hand. A man with everything he wanted in the world ... I can’t understand it. ’Pon my soul, I can’t!” The Inspector, who had been kneeling by the corpse, motioned with his head to the village doctor. Dr. Redstone went to him and began a cursory examination of the body. The Inspector rose. “I understand from the butler, gentlemen,” he said, “that it was Miss Trevert, a lady staying in the house, who heard the shot fired. I should like to see her, please. And you, sir, are you a relation of ...” Greve, thus addressed, hastily replied. “Only a friend, Inspector. I am staying in the house. I am a barrister. Perhaps I may be able to assist you ...” Humphries shot a slow, shrewd glance at him from beneath his shaggy blond eyebrows. “Thank you, sir, much obliged, I’m sure. Now”—he thrust a hand into his tunic and produced a large leather-bound notebook—“do you know anything as would throw a light on this business?” Greve shook his head. “He seemed perfectly cheerful at lunch. He left the dining-room directly after he had taken his coffee.” “Where did he go?” “He came here to work. He told us at lunch that he was going to shut himself up in the library for the whole afternoon as he had a lot of work to get through.”