"Man in a fit," cried one of the crowd.
"That be blowed," said another; "he won't have any more of such fits as them, I reckon. The man's dead; that's what he is."
Hearing these words Mr. Broadbent opened the door and pushed his way among the crowd. Instantly he returned, his face full of horror.
"Good God!" he said to his companion, "who do you think it is? The man--the very man about whom I was speaking to you just now--Claxton."
Doctor Haughton descended from the carriage in a more leisurely and professional manner, stepped among the people, who made way for him right and left, knelt by the prostrate body; lifted its arms and applied his fingers to its wrists. Then he shook his head.
"The man is dead," he said; "there can be no doubt about that." And he bent forward to look at the features. Instantly recognising him, he sprang back. "Who did you say this man was?" he said, turning to Mr. Broadbent.
"Claxton--Mr. Claxton, of Rose Cottage."
"Nothing of the sort," said the doctor. "I knew him well; it is Mr. Calverley, of Great Walpole-street."
"My good sir," said Mr. Broadbent, "I knew the man well. I saw him only yesterday."
"And I knew Mr. Calverley well. He was one of Chipchase's patients, and I attended him when Chipchase was out of town. We can soon settle this--Here, you lad, just stand at those horses' heads--Gibson," to his coachman, "get down, and come here. Did you ever see that gentleman before?" pointing to the body.