It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. “Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival—or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived. The windows which were about nine feet from the floor, had no glass; but were secured by thick iron bars, and an oaken beam. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop.
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