certainly succeeded in getting a mental photograph of the thing, didn’t you?’
‘Couldn’t help it,’ Keith said, carelessly. ‘You see, when the lights went out it was dark, but always, in a few seconds, one’s eyes adjust themselves to the change and you sort of see things dimly. I did, anyway. I heard Mr Balfour fall and then I discerned this figure coming toward me. I could see a large white handkerchief, or cloth, in his hand, but my attention was caught by that mask and I stared at it. I could see his eyes glittering through the eyeholes and then, in a moment, the sickening whiff of chloroform came to me and though I struggled for a few seconds, I lost consciousness. When I came to the lights were on and Mr Balfour lay on the floor with that skewer sticking in his heart. The man was not here.’
‘How long were you under the influence of the anaesthetic?’ asked Manton, looking at him curiously.
‘I’ve no idea,’ returned Ramsay; ‘how could I have? One doesn’t time one’s actions in such circumstances.’
‘Yet you seem to have a pretty clear idea of what went on.’
‘Not at all. When I regained consciousness, which came slowly, I saw Mr Balfour dead—’
‘How did you know he was dead?’ interrupted Burnet.
Keith Ramsay looked at him, calmly. He did not seem to resent the Captain’s questions, but he seemed to think him ignorant or impertinent.
‘It doesn’t require a very vivid imagination to assume a man is dead when he lies motionless, in a distorted position, with a dagger in his heart.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Manton.
‘I started to cross the room, to go to him, but I found myself wobbly and had to wait a few moments to get steady enough to walk.’
‘And then you walked?’
‘I did. My brain cleared more rapidly than my muscles coordinated, and when I found myself at Mr Balfour’s side I sat down in that chair and thought out what to do.’
‘And you decided to call Headquarters?’
‘I did. That is the duty of any citizen who discovers a crime. I was, of course, aware that you would at once conclude that I was the criminal. That is for you to prove, if you can. I did not kill Mr Balfour, I would have no reason for doing so. He was a splendid man. I admired and respected him. I used my best efforts to be a satisfactory librarian to him and he said I was one. I have learned much about rare books, both from him and from Mr Sewell, and I am deeply interested in collecting them.’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsay,’ the Inspector said, ‘but let us get to the facts of what happened here this evening. At what time did you and Mr Balfour come here?’
‘I think soon after ten o’clock. Mr Balfour said we would start at ten, but we were delayed a little.’
‘I’m not quite clear about the details of your visit. If Mr Sewell was not here when you arrived, how did you get in?’
John Sewell looked at Ramsay. He had every confidence in the young man, but he very much wanted to hear the answer to that question.
The witness hesitated. Implicit as Sewell’s confidence was, he had to admit to himself that Keith Ramsay looked like a man with something to conceal.
Detective Burnet spoke.
‘I’ll tell how you got in, Mr Ramsay; you forced an entrance through that back window.’
He pointed to a window in the rear wall next the door.
It was closed now, but the detective had examined it. He went on: ‘You shoved back the catch with a jack-knife or something like that, pushed up the window, climbed in—’
‘And then opened the door to Mr Balfour,’ said Keith, calmly. ‘Yes, Inspector, that was the way of it. I think, Mr Sewell, if I tell you it was all right, you will believe me.’
‘Well, yes,’ Sewell returned, ‘but it seemed a little odd at first.’
‘Seems odd to me yet,’ declared Burnet. ‘Why the breaking and entering act, Mr Ramsay?’
‘I can give you no answer to that except the truth. Mr Balfour was exceedingly anxious to come here tonight. He wanted to find two certain books that are missing from his library, and he thought they might be down here—by—by accident.’
John Sewell showed amazement in every line of his countenance.
‘What’s that, Ramsay? What books are you talking about?’
‘Please leave the witness to me, Mr Sewell. The titles of the books are of no interest, we want to get at the facts of the murder. Go on, Mr Ramsay. Did Mr Balfour, then, come here on a secret errand? Did he know Mr Sewell would not be here and he would have opportunity to hunt for his books by himself?’
‘That I can’t say. It was Mr Balfour’s habit to keep his plans or motives to himself. Many a time I would start off with him having no idea of our errand or our destination.’
‘Did you go to the front door first?’
Sewell began to look more and more amazed; Keith Ramsay became more and more hesitant and embarrassed.
‘We did not,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Mr Balfour stopped at a narrow alley that runs part way through the block, and we came along that until we reached the rear of this house, and Mr Balfour asked me if I had a pocket-knife and if I could force the window catch with it. I could and did, but I do not look upon it as a felonious entrance for we had no wrong intent. If Mr Sewell had been here, Mr Balfour would have knocked at the door and been admitted.’
‘Are you often here of an evening, Mr Sewell?’
‘Oh, yes, frequently.’
‘And does Mr Balfour, when he visits you, always come to the back door?’
‘Why, I don’t remember. No, not always.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Y-Yes.’
‘I think, Mr Sewell, that you must admit that this is the first time the gentleman ever came here and arrived at the rear entrance. Isn’t that right?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember. What has that to do with it, anyway?’
‘Only that, unless it was his habit, it seems very strange for Mr Balfour to make the entrance he made this evening.’
‘Oh, very well, we’ll agree it was strange. But of no consequence as I can see.’
A heavy tread was heard, as of someone coming through the big front room. In a moment a shock-headed youth appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello,’ he said, cordially. ‘What’s going on?’
‘How did you get in?’ asked Burnet, gruffly.
‘Through the front door with my latch-key. My
