I held the candle before the dial of my watch that hung above my bed.
“It’s exactly five minutes past twelve,” said I. “We’ve slept barely an hour.”
“Then the sooner I clear out the better it will be for both of us,” said he.
He went away slowly, and I heard him strike a match in his own room. He evidently meant to light his candle.
Some hours had passed before I fell into an uneasy sleep, and once more I was awakened by Arthur Jephson, who stood by my bedside. The morning light was in the room.
“For God’s sake, come into Tom’s room!” he whispered. “He’s dead!—Tom is dead!”
I tried to realise his words. Some moments had elapsed before I succeeded in doing so. I sprang from my bed and ran down the corridor to the room occupied by Tom Singleton. The landlord and a couple of servants were already there. They had burst in the door.
It was but too true: our poor friend lay on his bed with his body bent and his arms twisted as though he had been struggling desperately with some one at his last moment. His face, too, was horribly contorted, and his eyes were wide open.
“A doctor,” I managed to say.
“He’s already sent for, sir,” said the landlord.