There was a buzz of voices which had ceased at the entrance of Maltravers; it was now renewed. A surgeon had been summoned—the nearest surgeon,—a young Englishman of no great repute or name. He was making inquiries as he bent over the corpse.
"Yes, sir," said Lord Vargrave's servant, "his lordship told me to call him at nine o'clock. I came in at that hour, but his lordship did not move nor answer me. I then looked to see if he were very sound asleep, and I saw that the pillows had got somehow over his face, and his head seemed to lie very low; so I moved the pillows, and I saw that his lordship was dead."
"Sir," said the surgeon, turning to Maltravers, "you were a friend of his lordship, I hear. I have already sent for Mr. Howard and Lord Doltimore. Shall I speak with you a minute?"
Maltravers nodded assent. The surgeon cleared the room of all but himself, De Montaigne, and Maltravers.
"Has that servant lived long with Lord Vargrave?" asked the surgeon.
"I believe so,—yes; I recollect his face. Why?"
"And you think him safe and honest?"
"I don't know; I know nothing of him."
"Look here, sir,"—and the surgeon pointed to a slight discoloration on one side the throat of the dead man. "This may be accidental—purely natural; his lordship may have died in a fit; there are no certain marks of outward violence, but murder by suffocation might still—"
"But who besides the servant could gain admission? Was the outer door closed?"