* * * * *
Faversham ran into the gallery. The first thing he saw was the Nattier
portrait lying on its face beside a chair overturned. Beyond it, a dark
object on the floor. At the same moment, he perceived Dixon standing
horror-struck, at the farther end of the gallery, with the handle of the
door leading to the servants' quarters still in his grasp. Then the old
man too ran.
The two men were brought up by the same obstacle. The body of Edmund
Melrose lay between them.
Melrose had fallen on his face. As Faversham and Dixon lifted him, they
saw that he was still breathing, though _in extremis_. He had been shot
through the breast, and a pool of blood lay beneath him, blotting out the
faded blues and yellow greens of a Persian carpet.
At the command of her husband, Mrs. Dixon, who had hurried after him, ran
for brandy, crying also for help. Faversham snatched a cushion, put it
under the dying man's head, and loosened his clothing. Melrose's eyelids
fluttered once or twice, then sank. With a low groan, a gush of blood
from the mouth, he passed away while Dixon prayed.
"May the Lord have mercy--mercy!"
The old man rocked to and fro beside the corpse in an anguish. Mrs. Dixon
coming with the brandy in her hand was stopped by a gesture from
Faversham.
"No use!" He touched Dixon on the shoulder. "Dixon--this is murder! You
must go at once for Doctor Undershaw and the police. Take the motor. Mrs.
Pages:
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441