“Of course, Charlie. Shall I tell Violet?”

“Will you? Bring her to the room. You don’t mind bringing her in?”

“Of course not,” said Charlot, “if — if she’ll come.”

“Do you think—”

“I’ll see. Come along, children.”

Lord Charles moved quickly to the door and held it open. For as long as Roberta had known the Lampreys he had made the same movement each night after dinner, always reaching the door before his sons and holding it open with a little bow to his wife as she passed him. To-night they looked into each other’s faces for a moment and then Roberta saw Lord Charles walk by on his way to his brother. That one glance gave her a vivid, indelible impression of him. The light from the hall shone on his head, making a halo of his thin hair and a bright-rimmed silhouette of his face. He wore that familiar air of punctiliousness. The placidity and the detachment to which she was accustomed still appeared in that mild profile, but she afterwards thought she had seen a glint of something else, a kind of sharpness so foreign to her idea of Lord Charles that she attributed the impression to a trick of lighting or of her overstimulated imagination. The hall door slammed. Roberta was left with the others to sit in silence and to wait.

Inspector Fox sat in a corner of the dressing-room, his notebook on his knee, his pencil held in a large, clean hand. He was perfectly still and quite unobtrusive but his presence made itself felt. The two doctors and the nurse were much aware of him and from time to time glanced towards the corner of the room where he sat waiting. A bedside lamp cast a strong light en the patient and a reflected glow on the faces that bent over him. The only sound in the room, a disgusting sound, was made by the patient. On a table close to Fox was a bag. It contained, among a good deal of curious paraphernalia, a silver-plated skewer, carefully packed.

At thirty-five minutes past eight by Fox’s watch there was a slight disturbance. The doctors moved; the nurse’s uniform crackled. The taller of the doctors glanced over his shoulder into a corner of the room.

“It’s coming, I think. Better send for Lord Charles.” He pressed the hanging bell-push. The nurse went to the door and in a moment spoke in a low voice to someone outside. Fox left his chair and moved a little nearer the bed.

The patient’s left eye was hidden by a dressing. The right eye was open and stared straight up at the ceiling. From somewhere inside him, mingled with the hollow sound of his breathing, came a curious noise. His complicated mechanism of speech was trying unsuccessfully to function. The bedclothes were distrubed and very slowly one of his hands crept out. The nurse made a movment which was checked by Fox.

“Excuse me,” said Fox, “I’d be obliged if you’d let his lordship—”

“Yes, yes,” said the tall doctor. “Let him be, nurse.”

The hand crept on laboriously out of shadow into light. The finger tips, clinging to the surface of the neck, crawling with infinite pains, seemed to have a separate life of their own. The single eye no longer stared at the ceiling but turned anxiously in its deep socket as though questing for some attentive face.

“Is he trying to show us something, Sir Matthew?” asked Fox.

“No, no. Quite impossible. The movement has no meaning. He doesn’t know—”

“I’d be obliged if you’d ask him, just the same.”

The doctor gave the slightest possible shrug, leant forward, slid his hand under the sheet, and spoke distinctly.

“Do you want to tell us something?”

The eyelid flickered.

“Do you want to tell us how you were hurt?”

The door opened. Lord Charles Lamprey came into the half light. He stood motionless at the foot of the bed and watched his brother’s hand move, lagging inch by inch, up the sharp angle of his jaw.

“There’s no significance in this,” said the doctor.

“I’d like to ask him, though,” said Fox, “if it’s all the same to you, Sir Matthew.”

The doctor moved aside. Fox bent forward and stared at Lord Wutherwood.

A deep frown had drawn the eyebrows together. Some sort of sound came from the open mouth. “You want to show us something, my lord, don’t you?” said Fox. The fingers crawled across the cheek and upwards. “Your eyes? You want to show us your eyes?” The one eye closed slowly, and opened again, and a voice oddly definite, almost articulate, made a short sound.

“Is he going?” asked Lord Charles clearly.

“I think so,” said the doctor. “Is Lady Wutherwood—”

“She is very much distressed. She feels that she cannot face the ordeal.”

“She realizes,” said Dr. Kantripp, who had not spoken before, “that there is probably very little time?”

“Yes. My wife says she made it quite clear.”

The doctors turned again to the bed and seemed by this movement to dismiss Lady Wutherwood. The patient’s hand slipped away from his face. His gaze seemed to be fixed on the shadows at the foot of his bed.

“Perhaps,” said Fox, “if he could see you, my lord, he might make a greater effort to speak.”

“He can see me.”

Fox reached out a massive arm and tilted the lamp. The figure at the foot of the bed was thrown into strong relief. Lord Charles blinked in the sudden glare but did not move.

“Will you speak to him, my lord?”

“Gabriel, do you know me?”

“Will you ask him who attacked him, my lord?”

“It is horrible — now — when he—”

“He might manage to answer you,” said Fox.

“Gabriel, do you know who hurt you?”

The frown deepened and the one eye and mouth opened so widely that Lord Wutherwood’s face looked like a mask in a nightmare. There was a sharp violence of sound and then silence. Fox turned away tactfully and the nurse’s hands went out to the hem of the sheet. ii

“I am very sorry, my lord,” said Fox, “to have to trouble you at such a time.”

“That can’t be helped.”

“That is so, my lord. Under the circumstances we’ve got to make one or two inquiries.”

“One or two!” said Lord Charles unevenly. “Do sit down, won’t you? I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Fox, my lord. Inspector Fox.”

“Oh, yes. Do sit down.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Fox sat down and with an air of composure drew out his spectacle case. Lord Charles took a chair near the fire and held out his hands to the blaze. They were unsteady and with an impatient movement he drew them back and thrust them into his pockets. He turned to Fox and found the Inspector regarding him blandly through steel-rimmed glasses.

“Before I trouble you with any questions, my lord,” said Fox, “I think it would be advisable for me to ring up my superior officer and report this occurrence. If I may use the telephone, my lord.”

“There is one on that desk. But of course you’d rather be alone.”

“No, thank you, my lord. This will be very convenient. If you will excuse me.”

He moved to the desk, dialled a number, and almost immediately spoke in a very subdued voice into the receiver. “Fox here, Mr. Alleyn’s room.” He waited, looking thoughtfully at the base of the telephone. “Mr. Alleyn? Fox, speaking from Flats 25–26 Pleasaunce Court Mansions, Cadogan Square. Residence of Lord Charles Lamprey. The case reported at seven-thirty-five is a fatality…Circumstances point that way, sir…Well, I was going to suggest it, sir, if it’s convenient. Yes, sir.” Here there was a longish pause during which Fox looked remarkably bland. “That’s so, Mr. Alleyn,” he said finally. “Thank you, sir.”

He hung up the receiver and returned to his chair.

“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, my lord,” said Fox, “will take over the case. He will be here in half an hour. In the meantime he has instructed me to carry on. So if I may trouble you, my lord…” He took out his note-book and adjusted his glasses. Lord Charles shivered, hunched up a shoulder, put his glass in his eye and waited.