“Not at all,” I said. “Come along.”

 

I passed through the door on the right, Parker on my heels, traversed the little

lobby where a small flight of stairs led upstairs to Ackroyd’s bedroom, and

tapped on the study door.

 

There was no answer. I turned the handle, but the door was locked.

 

“Allow me, sir,” said Parker.

 

Very nimbly, for a man of his build, he dropped on one knee and applied his eye

to the keyhole.

 

“Key is in the lock all right, sir,” he said, rising. “On the inside.

 

Mr. Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off to sleep.”

 

I bent down and verified Parker’s statement.

 

“It seems all right,” I said, “but, all the same, Parker, I’m going to wake your

master up. I shouldn’t be satisfied to go home without hearing from his own lips

that he’s quite all right.”

 

So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, “Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just a

minute.”