Grimes, with his head swathed in bandages, was a woe-begone object.
He greeted Colonel McIntyre and the detective with a sullen glare,
but his eyes brightened at sight of Kent, and he moved a feeble
hand in welcome.
"Sit down, sirs," he mumbled. "There's chairs for all."
"Don't worry about us," remarked McIntyre cheerily. "Just tell us
how you got that nasty knock on the head."
"I dunno, sir; it came like a clap o' thunder," Grimes tried to
lift his head, but gave over the attempt as excruciating pain
followed the effort.
"What hour of the morning was it?" asked Ferguson.
"About one o'clock, as near as I can tell, sir."
"And what were you doing in the library at that hour, Grimes?"
demanded McIntyre.
"Trying to find out what your household was up to, sir," was Grimes'
unexpected answer, and McIntyre started.
"Explain your meaning, Grimes," he commanded sternly.
"You can do it better than I can, sir," retorted Grimes. "You know
the reason every one's searching the room with the seven doors."
"The room with the seven doors!" echoed Ferguson.
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