thrust an arm through the empty window-frame, fumbling for the
window-catch.

"The catch is not fastened," he whispered, and with a resolute thrust he
pushed the window up. The curtains leapt up wildly, revealing a glimpse
of the pleasant, book-lined room. Both men from the darkness without saw
Parrish's desk littered with his papers and his habitual chair beyond
it, pushed back empty.

Trevert turned an instant, a hand on the window-sill.

"Bude," he said, "there's no one there!"

"Best look and see, sir," replied the butler, his coat-tails flapping in
the wind.

Trevert hoisted himself easily on to the window-sill, knelt there for an
instant, then thrust his legs over the sill and dropped into the room.
As he did so he stumbled, cried aloud.

Then the heavy grey curtains were flung back and the butler saw the
boy's face, rather white, at the open window.

"My God," he said slowly, "he's dead!"

A moment later Dr. Romain, waiting in the corridor, heard the key turn
in the lock of the library door. The door was flung open. Horace Trevert
stood there, silhouetted in a dull glow of light from the room. He was
pointing to the open window, beneath which Hartley Parrish lay on his
back motionless.