tampered with,” the secretary observed at last. “It’s very mysterious.”

 

Blunt made a slight motion with his head.

 

“There are some letters on the floor here,” he said.

 

I looked down. Three or four letters still lay where Ackroyd had dropped them

earlier in the evening.

 

But the blue envelope containing Mrs. Ferrars’s letter had disappeared.

 

I half opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment the sound of a bell pealed

through the house. There was a confused murmur of voices in the hall, and then

Parker appeared with our local inspector and a police constable.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the inspector. “I’m terribly sorry for this! A

good kind gentleman like Mr. Ackroyd. The butler says it is murder. No

possibility of accident or suicide, doctor?”

 

“None whatever,” I said.

 

“Ah! A bad business.”

 

He came and stood over the body.