“Good God!” Roger exclaimed in shocked tones. “What’s the matter with him?”
The inspector strode forward, bent to peer into the half-hidden face, and thrust his hand inside the clerical coat. Then he stood up and tugged at his moustache, staring down at the still, crumpled figure.
“The matter, sir?” he repeated slowly. “He’s dead—that’s what’s the matter with him.”
Chapter XIX.
End of a Scoundrel
For a moment there was silence. Then:
“Dead?” Roger echoed incredulously. “You say he’s dead?”
“As a door-nail,” asserted the inspector without emotion. “Only just (he’s still warm), but dead right enough.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Roger blankly.
The inspector turned his eyes back to the motionless form in the chair and continued to tug his moustache. “Hell!” he observed simply. As an epitaph for the Rev. Samuel the remark was perhaps not inapposite.
“This appears to have torn it,” Roger said, closing the door behind him and advancing gingerly.