"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the Indian
Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on his
handsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning in
this room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died. He
had been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of that
odd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table. I turned
quickly to seek it, but it was gone. And as I looked at the table
it came to me that here in this dusty room there must be finger
prints--many finger prints.
The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle. One or
two odd matters met my eye. On the table stood a box from a florist in
Bond Street. The lid had been removed and I saw that the box contained
a number of white asters. Beside the box lay a scarf-pin--an emerald
scarab. And not far from the captain's body lay what is known--owing to
the German city where it is made--as a Homburg hat.
I recalled that it is most important at such times that nothing be
disturbed, and I turned to old Walters. His face was like this paper on
which I write; his knees trembled beneath him.
"Walters," said I, "we must leave things just as they are until the
police arrive. Come with me while I notify Scotland Yard."
"Very good, sir," said Walters.
We went down then to the telephone in the lower hall, and I called up
the Yard. I was told that an inspector would come at once and I went
back to my room to wait for him.
You can well imagine the feelings that were mine as I waited. Before
this mystery should be solved, I foresaw that I might be involved to a
degree that was unpleasant if not dangerous. Walters would remember that
I first came here as one acquainted with the captain. He had noted, I
felt sure, the lack of intimacy between the captain and myself, once
the former arrived from India. He would no doubt testify that I had been
most anxious to obtain lodgings in the same house with Fraser-Freer.
Then there was the matter of my letter from Archie. I must keep that
secret, I felt sure. Lastly, there was not a living soul to back me up
in my story of the quarrel that preceded the captain's death, of the man
who escaped by way of the garden.