“No!” she cried. “Oh, no!”
Her face was in her hands again and she was trembling; it was impossible to doubt that she spoke the truth.
“Then who did?”
There was no answer; only a dry, convulsive sobbing.
As Godfrey paused to look at her, the door opened and Simmonds came in. He closed it and snapped the lock.
“There’s a policeman outside and one at each landing,” he announced. “We’ll look things over here, and then search the building. First, let’s look at the body.”
It was lying partly on its back, partly on its right side, with its legs doubled under it. The face was a bearded one, rough, coarse, and a little bloated-not a prepossessing face under any circumstances, and actively repulsive now, with its gaping mouth and widely staring eyes. It was tanned and seamed by exposure to wind and rain and there was a deep scar across the left temple.
“Between fifty and sixty years of age,” remarked Godfrey. “Pouf! smell the whiskey.”
Then, looking into the staring eyes, he uttered a sudden exclamation.
“See there, Simmonds, how the right pupil’s dilated. Do you know what that means?”
Simmonds shook his head.
“No, I can’t say I do.”
“It means,” said Godfrey, “that somebody hit this fellow a hard blow on the left side of the head and produced a haemorrhage of the brain.”
