He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into the room.
“My God!” said Raymond from behind him; “it’s true, then.”
Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.
“Nothing must be moved,” I explained. “The police must see him exactly as he is now.”
Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over Blunt’s shoulder at the body.
“This is terrible,” he said in a low voice.
He had regained his composure, but as he took off the pince-nez he habitually wore and polished them I observed that his hand was shaking.
“Robbery, I suppose,” he said. “How did the fellow get in? Through the window? Has anything been taken?”
He went towards the desk.
“You think it’s burglary?” I said slowly.
“What else could it be? There’s no question of suicide, I suppose?”
“No man could stab himself in such a way,” I said confidently. “It’s murder right enough. But with what motive?”
“Roger hadn’t an enemy in the world,” said Blunt quietly. “Must have been burglars. But what was the thief after? Nothing seems to be