"No," he replied; "it was not. Nor was it apoplexy, nor disease of any sort. Mr. Robert Pembroke did not die a natural death; he was killed while he slept."
I suppose to a man of Doctor Masterson's brusk, curt manner it was natural to announce this fact so baldly; but it seemed to me nothing short of brutality to fling the statement in the face of that quivering, shrinking girl.
"Killed!" she said, clasping her hands tightly. "Murdered!"
"Yes," said the doctor; "murdered in a peculiar fashion, and by a means of devilish ingenuity. Indeed, I must confess that had it not been for Doctor Post's conviction that the death was not natural, and his determination to discover the cause, it might never have been found out."
"Was he shot?" asked Janet, and it seemed to me she spoke like one in a trance.
"Shot? No!" said Doctor Masterson. "He was stabbed, or rather pierced, with a long, thin pin—a hat-pin, you know. Stabbed in the back of his neck, at the base of the brain, as he lay asleep. He never knew it. The pin broke off in the wound, and death was immediate, caused by cerebral hemorrhage. Doctor Post and I have made a most thorough examination, and we are convinced that these are the facts. Mr. Pembroke was lying on his side, in a most natural position, and was, in all probability, sleeping soundly. This gave the murderer an excellent opportunity to aim the deadly pin with careful precision, and to pierce the brain with a swift stab. The result of this was precisely the same as a sudden and fatal apoplectic stroke. Though there may have been a tremor or slight quiver of certain muscles, there was no convulsion or contortion, and Mr. Pembroke's face still retains the placid look of sleep. Death must have taken place, we conclude, at or near midnight."
We who heard this sat as if paralyzed. It was so unexpected, so fearfully sudden, so appalling, that there seemed to be no words fit to express our feelings.
Then George Lawrence spoke. "Who did it?" he said, and his white face and compressed lips showed the struggle he was making for self-control.
"I don't know," and Doctor Masterson spoke mechanically, as if thinking of something else.
"No, of course, we don't know," broke in Doctor Post, who seemed a bit inclined to emphasize his own importance. And perhaps this was but natural, as the older doctor had plainly stated that but for Doctor Post's insistent investigation they might never have discovered the crime.