“Some one has turned the light out!” whispered Leroux, nervously; “I left it on.”
Dr. Cumberly pressed the switch, turning up the lobby light as Exel entered from the landing. Then Leroux, entering the study first of the three, switched on the light there, also.
One glance he threw about the room, then started back like a man physically stricken.
“Cumberly!” he gasped, “Cumberly”—and he pointed to the furry heap by the writing-table.
“You said she lay on the chesterfield,” muttered Cumberly.
“I left her there.”…
Dr. Cumberly crossed the room and dropped upon his knees. He turned the white face toward the light, gently parted the civet fur, and pressed his ear to the silken covering of the breast. He started slightly and looked into the glazing eyes.
Replacing the fur which he had disarranged, the physician stood up and fixed a keen gaze upon the face of Henry Leroux. The latter swallowed noisily, moistening his parched lips.
“Is she”…he muttered; “is she”…
“God’s mercy, Leroux!” whispered Mr. Exel—“what does this mean?”
“The woman is dead,” said Dr. Cumberly.
In common with all medical men, Dr. Cumberly was a physiognomist; he was a great physician and a proportionately great physiognomist. Therefore, when he looked into Henry Leroux’s eyes, he saw
