"I suppose it's all right," he said. "At any rate, I'll risk it. Bear in mind, however, that I know nothing of the business that brings you here. I'm only following his instructions."
I took the key and inserted it in the lock. Then we entered the house, and Bertram struck a match and lit a taper he had brought with him. Holding the revolver in my right hand, in case it should be wanted, I passed into the room opening out of the little passage. It was untenanted, save by a mouse, that scuttled away across the floor on seeing us. Finding nothing to reward us there, we passed out into the passage again, and made for the flight of stairs at the further end. The letter had mentioned the top floor, and for this reason our failure to find anything in this room did not disappoint us.
"We must look higher," I whispered to Bertram as we began our climb. The next floor, however, was as barren as its predecessor, and now only the top remained to us. The last flight of stairs was somewhat narrower than the others, and there was an awkward turn in it, which would have been just the spot to have served as a hiding-place for an enemy. We passed it, however, in safety, and at last stood upon the top landing of that strange house. Here there were only two doors. One was in the rear, while the other overlooked the street. Once more recalling the wording of the letter, we decided upon investigating the latter room first. This must be the chamber in which the light we had observed from the street was located. Our revolvers ready in our hands, we approached the door, and I turned the handle.
When we entered the room it was a strange and terrible picture we had before us. The room was only a small one. Its furniture consisted of a bed and two chairs, one of which was overturned upon the floor, a large box, which also served as a table, a bucket, and a number of medicine bottles. Upon the bed lay the body of poor Max, while, half-supported upon the bed and half-resting upon the floor, was the figure of a man lying face downwards. Stepping softly across the room, as if I feared I might wake them, I approached the stranger, for a stranger to me he certainly was. By this time Bertram had also approached the bed, and was leaning over me in order to examine him. Suddenly he uttered a cry and staggered back, as if he had received a blow.
"My God!" he cried. "What does this mean? Am I going mad?"
"What is it, man?" I inquired, springing to my feet and wondering what fresh horror he was going to bring to light.
Once more he advanced towards the bed. His face was ashen in its pallor as he stooped over the dead man.
"It's Moreas!" he said. "Good God, it's Moreas!"
"Moreas!" I repeated, as if I could scarcely believe I heard aright. "How can it be Moreas? Did you not tell me that Max shot him on the plains where they found the diamonds?"
"Yet it is Moreas sure enough," Bertram asserted, still speaking in the same strained voice. "And see, he has been stabbed from behind. This is Rodriguez's handiwork."