The Yellow Streak | Page 9

with books arranged in shelves of
dark brown oak running round the four walls, but sunk level with them
and reaching up to a broad band of perfectly plain white plasterwork.
It was a cheerful, comfortable, eminently modern room, half library,
half office. The oak was solid, but uncompromisingly new. The great
leather armchairs were designed on modern lines--for comfort rather
than for appearance. There were no pictures; but vases of
chrysanthemums stood here and there about the room. A dictaphone in
a case was in a corner, but beside it was a little table on which were set
out some rare bits of old Chelsea. There was also a gramophone, but it
was enclosed in a superb case of genuine old black-and-gold lacquer.
The very books in their shelves carried on this contrast of business with

recreation. For while one set of shelves contained row upon row of
technical works, company reports, and all manner of business reference
books bound in leather, on another were to be found the vellum-bound
volumes of the Kelmscott Press.
A sober note of grey or mole colour was the colour scheme of the room.
The heavy pile carpet which stretched right up to the walls was of this
quiet neutral shade: so were the easy-chairs, and the colour of the heavy
curtains, which hung in front of the two high windows, was in harmony
with the restful decorative scheme of the room.
The massive oaken door stood opposite the window overlooking the
rosery--the window through which Horace Trevert had entered.
Parrish's desk was in front of this window, between it and the door in
consequence. By the other window, which, as has been stated, looked
out on the clipped hedge surrounding the Pleasure Ground, was the
little table with the Chelsea china, the dictaphone, and one of the
easy-chairs. The centre of the room was clear so that nothing lay
between the door and the carved mahogany chair at the desk. Here, as
they all knew, Parrish was accustomed to sit when working, his back to
the door, his face to the window overlooking the rosery.
The desk stood about ten feet from the window. On it was a large brass
lamp which cast a brilliant circle of light upon the broad flat top of the
desk with its orderly array of letter-trays, its handsome silver-edged
blotter and silver and tortoise-shell writing appurtenances. By the light
of this lamp Dr. Romain, looking from the doorway, saw that Hartley
Parrish's chair was vacant, pushed back a little way from the desk. The
rest of the room was wrapt in unrevealing half-light.
"He's there by the window!"
Horace was whispering to the doctor. Romain strode over to the desk
and picked up the lamp. As he did so, his eyes fell upon the pale face of
Hartley Parrish. He lay on his back in the space between the desk and
the window. His head was flung back, his eyes, bluish-grey,--the
narrow, rather expressionless eyes of the successful business
man,--were wide open and fixed in a sightless stare, his rather full

mouth, with its clean-shaven lips, was rigid and stern. With the broad
forehead, the prominent brows, the bold, aggressive nose, and the
square bony jaw, it was a fighter's face, a fine face save for the evil
promise of that sensuous mouth. So thought the doctor with the swift
psychological process of his trade.
From the face his gaze travelled to the body. And then Romain could
not repress an involuntary start, albeit he saw what he had half expected
to see. The fleshy right hand of Hartley Parrish grasped convulsively an
automatic pistol. His clutching index finger was crooked about the
trigger and the barrel was pressed into the yielding pile of the carpet.
His other hand with clawing fingers was flung out away from the body
on the other side. One leg was stretched out to its fullest extent and the
foot just touched the hem of the grey window curtains. The other leg
was slightly drawn up.
The doctor raised the lamp from the desk and, dropping on one knee,
placed it on the ground beside the body. With gentle fingers he
manipulated the eyes, opened the blue serge coat and waistcoat which
Parrish was wearing. As he unbuttoned the waistcoat, he laid bare a
dark red stain on the breast of the fine silk shirt. He opened shirt and
under-vest, bent an ear to the still form, and then, with a little helpless
gesture, rose to his feet.
"Dead?" queried Trevert.
Romain nodded shortly.
"Shot through the heart!" he said.
"He looked so ... so limp," the boy said, shrinking back a little, "I
thought he was dead. But I never thought old Hartley would have done
a thing like that ..."
The