hroat in the murdered woman's
bedroom upstairs, just before the shot was fired?

Colwyn slowly paced up and down the room in the midnight silence,
conning all the facts over again in the light of this overlooked
incident.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The three dined together in the big dining-room almost in silence.
Musard and Philip Heredith had not returned until after six, and their
first knowledge of Colwyn's presence was by some oversight deferred
until they met at the dinner table. In the awkwardness of that surprise
they sat down to dine, and Musard's half-hearted efforts to start a
conversation met with little response from his companions. Colwyn was
preoccupied with his own thoughts, which apparently affected his
appetite, for he sent away dish after dish untouched. Phil hastened the
service of the meal considerably, as though he were anxious to get it
over as speedily as possible in order to hear what the detective had to
say. As soon as the dessert was on the table he turned to Colwyn eagerly
and asked him if he had any news.

"I have many things to say," was the response.

"In that case, shall we take our coffee into the smoking-room?"
suggested Musard with a slight glance at the hovering figure of the
butler.

"I prefer to remain here, if you do not mind," said Colwyn.

Musard shot a puzzled look at him, which the detective met with a clear
cold gaze which revealed nothing. There was another silent pause while
they waited for the butler to leave the room. But Tufnell was pouring
out coffee and handing cigars with the slow deliberation of a man
sufficiently old to have outlived any illusions about the value of time.
Philip Heredith lit a cigarette. Musard waved away the cigar-box and
produced a strong black cheroot from the crocodile-skin case. Colwyn
declined a cigar, and his coffee remained untasted in front of him.

"You can leave the room now, Tufnell," said Phil impatiently. "Do not
return until I ring. We do not wish to be disturbed."

Tufnell bowed and left the room. As he did so Colwyn pushed back his
chair and walked across to the window, where he stood for a few moments
looking out. A wan young moon gleamed through the black tapestry of the
avenue of trees, pointing white fingers at the house and plunging the
old garden into deep pools of shadow. The trees huddled in their rows,
whispering menacingly, and stretching half-stripped branches to the
silent sky.

Colwyn returned to the table an