It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the front door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable promptitude by Parker, the butler.

 

The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat. Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his hands full of papers.

 

“Good-evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?”

 

The last was in allusion² to my black bag, which I had laid down on the oak chest.

 

I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement³ case at any moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder:—

 

“Go into the drawing-room. You know the way. The ladies will be down in a minute. I must just take these papers to Mr. Ackroyd, and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

 

On Raymond’s appearance Parker had withdrawn⁴, so I was alone in the hall. I settled my tie, glanced in a large mirror which hung there, and crossed to the door32 directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door of the drawing-room.

 

I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within—the shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noted⁶ it, I may say, quite mechanically, without attaching any importance to it at the time.

 

I opened the door and walked in. As I did so, I almost collided with Miss Russell, who was just coming out. We both apologized.

 

For the first time I found myself appraising⁷ the housekeeper⁸ and thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been—indeed, as far as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with gray, and when she had a color, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of her looks was not so apparent.

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