Ann the cook—­so Plinny told me—­had found his chair overset behind him, but no other sign of a struggle.  He had been stabbed in front, high on the left breast and a little below the collar-bone, and must have toppled forward at once across the step, and died where he fell.  The chair had been righted and set in place, perhaps by Ann when she washed down the step.  A well-defined line across the floor showed where the cleaning had begun, and behind it the scanty furniture of the place had not been disturbed.  At the back, in one corner stood an old drum, with dust and droppings of leaf-mould in the wrinkles of its sagged parchment, and dust upon the drumsticks thrust within its frayed strapping; in the corner opposite an old military chest which held the bunting for the flagstaff—­a Union flag, a couple of ensigns, and half a dozen odd square-signals and pennants.  I stooped over this, and as I did so I observed that there were finger-marks on the dust at the edge of the lid; but, lifting it, found the flags inside neatly rolled and stowed in order.  On the table lay my father’s Bible and his pocket Virgil, the latter open and laid face downwards.  I picked it up, and the next moment came near to dropping it again with a shiver, for a dry smear of blood crossed the two pages.

Here, not to complicate mysteries, let me tell at once what Ann told me later—­that she had found the book lying in the blood-dabbled grass before the step, when it must have fallen from my father’s hand, and had replaced it upon the table.  But for the moment, surmising another clue, I stared at the page—­a page of the seventh “Aeneid”—­and at the stain which, as if to underline them, started beneath the words—­

     “Hic domus, haec patria est.  Genitor mihi talia namque
     (Nunc repeto) Anchises fatorum arcana reliquit.”

I set down the book as I had found it, stepped forth again into the sunshine.  The scouring of the step had left a moist puddle below it, where the ground, no doubt, had been dry and hard on the evening of the murder.  At the edge of this puddle the turf twinkled with clean dew—­close, well-trimmed turf sloping gently to the stream which formed the real boundary of the garden; but Miss Belcher, the neighbouring land-owner, a person of great wealth and the most eccentric good-nature, had allowed my father to build a wall on the far side, for privacy, and had granted him an entrance through it to her park—­a narrow wooden door to which a miniature bridge gave access across the stream.

There were thus three ways of approaching the summer-house; (1) by the path which wound through the garden from the house, (2) across the turf from the side-gate, which opened out of a lane, or woodcutters’ road, running at right angles from the turnpike and alongside the garden fence towards the park; and (3) from the park itself, across the little bridge.  From the bridge a straight line to the summer-house would lie behind the angle of sight of any one seated within; so that a visitor, stepping with caution, might present himself at the doorway without any warning.