That room, the front room—yes! But between Hanaud's legs the light trickled out into the dark room behind, and here, on the floor illuminated by a little lane of light, Jim, with a shiver, saw a clenched hand and a forearm in a crumpled shirt-sleeve.
"Turn round," he cried to Hanaud. "Look!"
Hanaud turned.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That is what I stumbled against."
He found a switch in the wall close to the door and snapped it down. The dark room was flooded with light, and on the floor, in the midst of a scene of disorder, a table pushed back here, a chair overturned there, lay the body of a man. He wore no coat. He was in his waistcoat and his shirt sleeves, and he was crumpled up with a horrible suggestion of agony like a ball, his knees towards his chin, his head forward towards his knees. One arm clutched the body close, the other, the one which Jim had seen, was flung out, his hand clenched in a spasm of intolerable pain. And about the body there was such a pool of blood as Jim Frobisher thought no body could contain.
Jim staggered back with his hands clasped over his eyes. He felt physically sick.
"Then he killed himself on our approach," he cried with a groan.
"Who?" answered Hanaud steadily.
"Jean Cladel. The man who whispered to us from behind the window."
Hanaud stunned him with a question.