"Been done as he sat writing in his chair," he muttered. "Look—the pen's fallen from his fingers as he fell forward. Queer!"
A policeman came hurrying into the room, pulling himself up as he saw what was there. His voice instinctively hushed.
"Dr. Wellesley's just gone down Meadow Gate, sir," he announced. "They've sent for him to come here at once."
"Unless!" murmured the superintendent. "Still——"
Then the five or six men present stood, silently waiting. Some stared about the room, as if wondering at its secret: some occasionally took covert glances at its central figure. One of the three high, narrow windows was open: Brent distinctly heard the murmur of children playing in the streets outside. And suddenly, from the tower of St. Hathelswide, at the other end of the market-place, curfew began to ring.
"He's coming, sir!" whispered the policeman who stood near the door. "On the stairs, sir."
Brent turned as Dr. Wellesley came hurrying into the room; a tall, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured man, who went straight to the desk, looked at what he found there, and turned quickly on the men grouped around.
"How long is it since he was found?" he asked abruptly.
"Ten or twelve minutes," answered Brent.