She moved towards the door of the cottage, taking a key from her muff.
"Yes ?" she said.

"And--I suppose you want my father to help?
He may be in--he may have gone to bed." She unlocked the door, walked into the open living-room, and turning up a lamp which stood on the table, glanced around her.
"No," she continued.

"He's not come in--so----" "Better tell her, Mr.Bent," whispered the sergeant.

"No use keeping it back, sir--she'll have to know." "The fact is," said Bent, "Mr.Kitely--we're afraid--has been murdered." The girl turned sharply at that; her eyes dilated, and a brighter tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
"Murdered!" she exclaimed.

"Shot ?" Her eyes went past Bent to a corner of the room, and Brereton, following them, saw that there stood a gun, placed amongst a pile of fishing-rods and similar sporting implements.