Well--
it would do for the moment--he did not need much time to carry out
his plans. He dragged the limp body, its head lolling, into the
billiard room where he deposited it on the floor in the corner
farthest from the door.
So far, so good--now to lock the door of the billiard room.
Fortunately, the key was there on the inside of the door. He quickly
transferred it, locked the billiard room door from the outside, and
pocketed the key. For a second he stood by the center table in the
living-room, recovering his breath and trying to straighten his
rumpled clothing. Then he crossed cautiously into the alcove and
started to pad up the alcove stairs, his face white and strained with
excitement and hope.
And it was then that there happened one of the most dramatic events
of the night. One which was to remain, for the next hour or so, as
bewildering as the murder and which, had it come a few moments sooner
or a few moments later, would have entirely changed the course of
events.
It was preceded by a desperate hammering on the door of the terrace.
It halted the Doctor on his way upstairs, drew Beresford on a run into
the living-room, and even reached the bedrooms of the women up above.
"My God! What's that?" Beresford panted.
The Doctor indicated the door. It was too late now. Already he
could hear Miss Cornelia's voice above; it was only a question of
a short time until Anderson in the billiard room revived and would
try to make his plight known.
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