He pushed past Antony, and began running out into the drive.  Antony followed him.  They ran along the front of the house, down a path to the left, and then to the left again over the grass, Cayley in front, the other close behind him.  Suddenly Cayley looked over his shoulder and pulled up short.

“Here,” he said.

They had come to the windows of the locked room, French windows which opened on to the lawns at the back of the house.  But now they were closed.  Antony couldn’t help feeling a thrill of excitement as he followed Cayley’s example, and put his face close up to the glass.  For the first time he wondered if there really had been a revolver shot in this mysterious room.  It had all seemed so absurd and melodramatic from the other side of the door.  But if there had been one shot, why should there not be two more?—­at the careless fools who were pressing their noses against the panes, and asking for it.

“My God, can you see it?” said Cayley in a shaking voice.  “Down there.  Look!”

The next moment Antony saw it.  A man was lying on the floor at the far end of the room, his back towards them.  A man?  Or the body of a man?

“Who is it?” said Antony.

“I don’t know,” the other whispered.

“Well, we’d better go and see.”  He considered the windows for a moment.  “I should think, if you put your weight into it, just where they join, they’ll give all right.  Otherwise, we can kick the glass in.”

Without saying anything, Cayley put his weight into it.  The window gave, and they went into the room.  Cayley walked quickly to the body, and dropped on his knees by it.  For the moment he seemed to hesitate; then with an effort he put a hand on to its shoulder and pulled it over.

“Thank God!” he murmured, and let the body go again.

“Who is it?” said Antony.

“Robert Ablett.”

“Oh!” said Antony.  “I thought his name was Mark,” he added, more to himself than to the other.

“Yes, Mark Ablett lives here.  Robert is his brother.”  He shuddered, and said, “I was afraid it was Mark.”

“Was Mark in the room too?”

“Yes,” said Cayley absently.  Then, as if resenting suddenly these questions from a stranger, “Who are you?”

But Antony had gone to the locked door, and was turning the handle.  “I suppose he put the key in his pocket,” he said, as he came back to the body again.

“Who?”

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

“Whoever did this,” he said, pointing to the man on the floor.  “Is he dead?”

“Help me,” said Cayley simply.

They turned the body on to its back, nerving themselves to look at it.  Robert Ablett had been shot between the eyes.  It was not a pleasant sight, and with his horror Antony felt a sudden pity for the man beside him, and a sudden remorse for the careless, easy way in which he had treated the affair.  But then one always went about imagining that these things didn’t happen—­except to other people.  It was difficult to believe in them just at first, when they happened to yourself.