"Certainly not," I answered. "I was only one degree better myself."
"That's enough to make any one feel creepy," he said, jerking his thumb towards the silent figure.
We did nothing but stand about and talk in subdued tones, until the doctor had completed his examination of the silent figure by the light of my lamps. It did not last long.
"Death was instantaneous," he said, as he stepped down from the car. "The bullet appears to have passed straight along the longitudinal sinus, and, as near as I can tell, he must have been dead about an hour."
"You would like to make a more extensive examination, I suppose, doctor?" said the sergeant.
"If a suitable place were available," he replied.
The sergeant mentioned an inn at a village not far distant, and, the doctor acquiescing, arrangements were at once made for conveying the body there, the sergeant and I setting out in advance to provide for its reception.
I am not going into any further detail regarding the proceedings of that night. Indeed I can to-day scarcely recall them. I know that I waited at the inn for a long while after the melancholy cortège arrived, and that I felt curiously dazed amidst all the bustle caused by the arrival. I remember eventually driving the sergeant back to Towcester, and making to him a long statement, which he took down in writing.
By the time I had completed this statement day had dawned. I shall never forget my impressions of that early morning as I rode home alone. The birds were twittering in the hedgerows, a soft white mist hung low down over the meadows, all nature was so serene and peaceful that it was difficult to imagine that the night which had passed had been so full of horror and mystery. I felt as one awakened from a dream. But on my way I passed the deserted motor-car. A constable was beside it, and I pulled up to speak to him.
"Seen nothing of Inspector Forrest, I suppose?" I asked.