“Thank goodness you’ve come at last,” cried a familiar voice, and Tom hurried to meet North. “Pray be quick; he is insensible still.”
The doctor looked at the young man curiously.
“Where is he?”
“We carried him into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa; but he has not stirred since. I’m afraid something is broken.”
As he spoke he led North into the dining-room, where the candles were burning, the shutters were closed, and curtains drawn; and there, upon a couch in the middle of the room, lay Sir Luke Candlish, as his brother had said, without having moved since he had been borne carefully in.
The doctor’s examination was short, and Tom Candlish stood looking on, apparently too much overcome to speak.
“Well,” he said at last, “is he very bad? Is anything broken?”
The doctor raised his eyebrows, and could have replied “his neck,” but he said simply: “Bad, sir? Can you not see that he is dead?”
“Dead?” ejaculated Tom; and his jaw dropped, while his face assumed a look of intense horror.
“Yes, sir. The butler’s theory seems to be quite correct. Sir Luke must have pitched headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom.”