While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet
of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy,
faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and
covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at
irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the
letters formed words, and the words read:
SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT
WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU
WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK
HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART
"Hallo!"
"Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?"
"Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out
your way?"
"Can't say that I have. Have you?"
"Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been
murdered--shot."
"Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot--murdered!" Inspector Seldon gave expression
to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the
telephone. Then he added, after a moment's reflection, "There must be
some mistake. He is away."
"Away where?"
"In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth--when the shooting
season opened."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on
his house while he was away.
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