"How wicked!" Maggie exclaimed.

"I suppose it is trying the ordinary Britisher a little high," Nigel
remarked, "to ask him to believe that he was murdered in cold blood,
here in the heart of London, by the secret service agent of a foreign
Power. The strangest part of it all is that it is true. To think that
those few pages of manuscript would have told us exactly what we have to
fear! Why, I actually had them in my hand."

"And I in my corsets!" Maggie groaned.

They were both silent for a moment. Then Nigel moved towards the door
and opened it.

"Come downstairs into the library, will you, Maggie?" he begged. "Let us
go in for a little reconstruction."

They found Brookes in the hall and took him with them. The blinds in
the room had never been raised, and there was still that nameless
atmosphere which lingers for long in an apartment which has become
associated with tragedy. Instinctively they all moved quietly and spoke
in hushed voices. Nigel sat in the chair where his uncle had been found
dead and made a mental effort to reconstruct the events which must have
immediately preceded the tragedy.

"I know that this was all thrashed out at the inquest, Brookes," he
said, "but I want you to tell me once more. You see how far it is from
this table to the door. My uncle must have had abundant warning of any
one approaching. Was there no other way by which any one could have
entered the room?"