There, sprawling face downward on the red-hot bricks at their feet, lay the body of a man.
Miss Gregg flinched unconsciously and caught hold of Vail’s arm. The doctor, his professional instincts aroused, ran forward and knelt at the man’s side, turning him over so that the body lay face up beneath the pitiless furnace-heat of the sky.
The dazzling white glare of sunlight poured down upon an upturned dead visage.
“Clive!” panted Miss Gregg, dizzily. “Oh, it’s Clive Creede!”
“Not a mark on him,” mumbled Vail, who had bent beside the doctor over the lifeless body. “Not a mark. Sunstroke, most likely. In his weakened state, coming out of the house into this inferno of heat— You’re sure he’s dead, Doctor?”
For an instant Lawton did not answer. Then he finished his deftly rapid examination and rose dazedly to his feet.
“Yes,” he said, his face a foolish blank of bewilderment. “Yes. He is dead. But he has been dead less than fifteen minutes. And—it wasn’t sunstroke. He—”
The doctor paused. Then from between his amazement-twisted lips he blurted:
“He froze to death!”
Miss Gregg cried out in unbelieving wonder. Thaxton Vail’s incredulity took a wordier form.