WHY, DOCTOR, HE'S DEAD!

In one moment the slow, heavy-looking constable changed, from a rustic, loutish fellow, to a man full of intelligent observation, for, as he raised the valance of the bed, there, indistinctly seen, was the body of a man, either through fear or to escape observation.

With a quick motion of the hand, the constable opened the leather case at his side, and drew his truncheon.

“Stand at the window, sir,” he said to Capel.“You, sir, keep the door.Now, then,” he cried, as soon as he had been obeyed, and in a sharp, authoritative voice.“The game’s up.Out you came.”

Capel set his teeth hard, for all this was horrible in that chamber of death.

“Do you hear?” cried the constable, sharply, for there was neither word nor movement from beneath the bed.“Oh, very well,” he continued, “only I warn you I stand no nonsense.”And the occupants of the room prepared for a struggle, with beating hearts.

The constable stepped back to them, and from behind his hand, said, softly:

“Be ready, perhaps there’s two.”

He stepped back and stooped with his staff ready for a blow.

“Now, then,” he cried; “is it surrender?”

There was no answer, and, he thrust his hand beneath the bed, seized the man’s leg, and dragged him out into the room, but only to loose his hold and start away.

“Why, doctor!” he cried, “he’s dead.”

The doctor caught up a candlestick and dropped on one knee beside the fresh horror, while the light from the bull’s-eye was again brought to bear, and mingled with the wan, yellow rays that struggled in through the panes.

“Good God, gentlemen!” gasped the butler, “it’s Charles.”

The horribly distorted features were, indeed, those of the footman, and the mystery of the death-chamber began to grow lighter, for it was evident that for some reason he had entered the room in the night.For no good mission, certainly, a short whalebone-handled life-preserver hanging by a twisted thong from his wrist.

The hideous stains upon the kukri were clearly enough explained by the sight of a terrible gash in the man’s throat, and one of his hands was crimsoned and smeared the one that had left its print upon the quilt, as, in his death struggle, he had rolled beneath the bed.

“No one else there, gentleman,” said the constable, looking beneath the bed and making his lantern play there and about the curtains, whilst as it shed its keen light across the calm, sleeping face of the Colonel, the man involuntarily took off his helmet and stepped back on tiptoe.

“Dead some hours,” said the doctor, rising.

“It is clear enough,” said Mr Girtle, in the midst of the painful silence.“This poor Hindoo was the faithful old servant of my deceased friend, and he died in defence of his master’s property.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the old butler, excitedly.“Charles used to talk about master’s money and diamonds in the servants’ hall.I used to reprove him, and say that talking about such things was tempting yourself.”

“Never asked you to be in it, of course?” said the constable, going close up to him.

“Oh, no; never, sir; but are you quite sure both him and Mr Ramo are dead?”

“Quite,” said the constable.“There, you can say what you like, but it’s my duty to tell you that I shall take down anything you say, and it may be used in evidence against you.”

“Against me!” cried the butler.

“Yes, against you.”

But there was no occasion for the note-book, for Preenham closed his lips and did not speak again.

“I think I will satisfy myself, constable, that all is safe here,” said Mr Girtle.“Gentlemen, will you come with me?”

He crossed the room, drew back the curtain over the portal and, taking out his keys, unlocked and pushed back the door, descending with the others into the vault-like chamber and examining the massive iron structure in the middle.

“It is quite safe,” he said, as the constable made the light of his lantern play here and there.

“But you have not looked in the safe,” said Artis, quickly.

“There is no need, sir.No one could have opened it, even with the keys, but Ramo or myself.Nothing has been touched.”

The policeman drew a long breath and they returned to the death-chamber, Mr Girtle carefully locking the iron door.

“I don’t think we shall want any detectives here, gentlemen,” said the constable; “I shall stay on the premises, but perhaps you will let the butler no, I think one of you, perhaps will be good enough to send in the first constable you see.”

“I am going back,” said the doctor.“I can do no more now, policeman.I will send a man to you.”

“Thankye, sir, if you will.”

“Of course you will give notice to the coroner, and there will be a post-mortem?”

“You leave that to me, sir; only send me one of our men.”

They were stealing out on tiptoe, when Capel went back and drew the heavy curtains right across the bed, to shut from the old warrior the horrors that lay in the middle of the room.The constable, too, stepped softly across to fasten the window.Then, following the others out, he closed and locked the door, turning round directly, ducking down, and involuntarily attempting to draw his truncheon, as he raised his left arm to ward off a blow.

“Bah!” he ejaculated.“Why, it’s a stature.Looked just as if it was going to knock one down.”