"I am sorry to say," Wingate informed him gravely, "that a very terrible
thing has happened. Lord Dredlinton died suddenly in this room, only a
few minutes ago. His body is upon the sofa there."
The imperturbability of the inspector was not proof against such an
amazing statement.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Was he ill?"
"Not that we know of," Wingate replied. "The doctor, who is on his way
here, will doubtless be able to inform us upon that point, I have always
understood that his heart was scarcely sound."
The inspector, as he stepped forward towards the couch, with Wingate a
yard or two in front of him, for the first time recognised the two men
who sat at the table, looking at him so strangely. Rees' hands were in
his pockets, his tie had come undone, his hair was ruffled. He had all
the appearance of a man recovering from a wild debauch. Phipps'
waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his eyes, in the gathering light, were
streaked with blood.
"Mr. Rees!" the inspector exclaimed. "And Mr. Phipps! Here? Why, I've a
dozen men all over the country looking for you two gentlemen!"
There was a dead silence. Wingate's hand had stolen into his pocket, in
which there was a little bulge, Rees seemed about to speak, then checked
himself. He glanced towards Phipps,--Phipps, whose hands were clasped
together as though he were in pain.
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