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was dead—shot through the head.
    I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.
    Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctor’s coming.
    Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.
    His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.
    â€œWell?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s dead right enough—been dead half an hour, I should say.”
    â€œSuicide?”
    â€œOut of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, where’s the weapon?”
    True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.
    â€œWe’d better not mess around with anything,” said Haydock. “I’d better ring up the police.”
    He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.
    â€œThis is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?”
    I explained. “Is—is it murder?” I asked rather faintly.
    â€œLooks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinarybusiness. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn’t popular, but one isn’t often murdered for that reason—worse luck.”
    â€œThere’s one rather curious thing,” I said. “I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there everyone was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.”
    Haydock drew his brows together.
    â€œThat’s suggestive—very. You were being got out of the way. Where’s your wife?”
    â€œGone up to London for the day.”
    â€œAnd the maid?”
    â€œIn the kitchen—right at the other side of the house.”
    â€œWhere she wouldn’t be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It’s a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?”
    â€œHe referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.”
    â€œMeaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”
    The thought of Lawrence Redding’s white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
    â€œThe police,” said my friend, and rose to his feet.
    Our police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
    â€œGood evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “the Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot—in the Vicarage.”
    He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
    He moved over to the writing table and announced:
    â€œNothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
    For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
    He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
    I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
    â€œIn your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
    â€œShot through the head at close quarters.”
    â€œAnd the weapon?”
    â€œI can’t say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of