MURDER
“Key is in the lock all right, sir,” he said, rising. “On the inside. Mr. Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off to sleep.”
I bent down and verified Parker’s statement.
“It seems all right,” I said, “but, all the same, Parker, I’m going to wake your master up. I shouldn’t be satisfied to go home without hearing from his own lips that he’s quite all right.”
So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, “Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just a minute.”
But still there was no answer. I glanced over my shoulder.
“I don’t want to alarm the household,” I said hesitatingly.
Parker went across and shut the door from the big hall through which we had come.
“I think that will be all right now, sir. The billiard room is at the other side of the house, and so are the kitchen quarters and the ladies’ bedrooms.”
I nodded comprehendingly. Then I banged once more frantically on the door, and stooping down, fairly bawled through the keyhole:—
“Ackroyd, Ackroyd! It’s Sheppard. Let me in.”
And still—silence. Not a sign of life from within the locked room. Parker and I glanced at each other.
“Look here, Parker,” I said, “I’m going to break this door in—or rather, we are. I’ll take the responsibility.”
“If you say so, sir,” said Parker, rather doubtfully.
“I do say so. I’m seriously alarmed about Mr. Ackroyd.”
[51]
