Watchman lay on a settle near the dart-board and opposite the bar. His eyes were wide open. They seemed to stare with glistening astonishment at the ceiling. The pupils were wide and black. His hands were clenched; the right arm lay across his body, the left dangled, and where the knuckles touched the floor they, like the back of the hand, were stained red.

‘Well,’ repeated Oates violently, ‘can’t any of you speak? What happened? Where’s your senses? Have you sent for a doctor?’

‘The telephone’s dead,’ said Will Pomeroy. ‘And he’s past doctoring, Dick.’

Oates picked up the left wrist.

‘What’s this? Blood?’

‘He got a prick from a dart.’

Oates looked at the clenched hand and felt the wrist. In the third finger there was a neat puncture on the outside, below the nail. It was stained brown. The nails were bluish.

‘I did that,’ said Legge suddenly. ‘It was my dart.’

Oates laid the hand down and bent over the figure. A drop of water fell from his coat on one of the staring eyes. He fumbled inside the shirt, looking over his shoulder at Will Pomeroy.

‘We’ll have to fetch a doctor, however,’ he said.

‘I’ll go,’ said Cubitt. ‘Is it Illington?’

‘Doctor Shaw, sir. Main road in, and the last corner. It’s on the left after you pass police station. He’s police-surgeon. I’d be obliged if you’d stop at the station and report.’

‘Right.’

Cubitt went out.

Oates straightened up and unbuttoned his cape.

‘I’ll have to get some notes down,’ he said, and felt in the pocket of his tunic. He stepped back and his boots crunched excruciatingly.

‘There’s glass all over the floor,’ said Will.

Decima Moore said, ‘Can’t we—cover him up?’

‘It would be better, don’t you think?’ said Miss Darragh, speaking for the first time.

‘Can I—’

Will said, ‘I’ll get something,’ and went out.

Oates looked round the group and at last addressed himself to Sebastian Parish.

‘How long ago was this, sir?’ he asked.

‘Only a few minutes. It happened just before you came in.’

Oates glanced at his watch.

‘Half-past nine,’ he said and noted it down.

‘Let’s hear what happened,’ he said.

‘But it’s not a case for the police,’ said Parish. ‘I mean, because he died suddenly—’

‘You called me in, sir,’ said Oates. ‘It’s no doubt a case for the doctor. Leave it, if you wish, sir, till he comes.’

‘No, no,’ said Parish, ‘I don’t mean that I object. It’s only that your notebook and everything—it’s so awful somehow.’ He turned to Abel Pomeroy. ‘You tell him.’