He pulled out his electric torch and tried the windows. They were shut,
and the first one was locked. The second one yielded to his hand. He
pulled it open, and stepped into the room. Making his way by the light of
his torch to the stairs, he swiftly but silently crept up them and turned
to the library on the left of the first landing. The door was closed but
not locked, and a faint light came through the keyhole. Rolfe pushed the
door open, and looked into the room. A man was leaning over the dead
judge's writing-desk, examining its contents by the light of a candle
which he had set down on the desk. He was so engrossed in his occupation
that he did not hear the door open.
"What are you doing there?" demanded Rolfe sternly. His voice sounded
hollow and menacing as it reverberated through the room.
The man at the desk started up, and turned round. It was Hill. When
he saw Rolfe he looked as though he would fall. He made as if to
step forward. Then he stood quite still, looking at the officer with
ashen face.
"Hill," said Rolfe quietly, "what does this mean?"
The butler had regained his self-composure with wonderful quickness. The
mask of reticence dropped over his face again, and it was in the smooth
deferential tones of a well-trained servant that he replied:
"Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to see if everything
was all right.
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