“I think the circumstances permit,” he explained. In a moment he looked up, puzzled. “The door is locked on the inside, and the key is in the lock.”
He pounded with his fist on the panel. He continued to pound until his knuckles were red. There was still no response.
“Odd,” he muttered.
“Very odd,” agreed Alan.
His shoulder was against the door. He drew back and with a single crash sent it in. A pale light filtered into the room from a corridor lamp, and the men stared. Rossland was in bed. They could see his face dimly, upturned, as if staring at the ceiling. But even now he made no movement and spoke no word. Marston entered and turned on the light.
After that, for ten seconds, no man moved. Then Alan heard Captain Rifle close the door behind them, and from Marston’s lips came a startled whisper:
“Good God!”
Rossland was not covered. He was undressed and flat on his back. His arms were stretched out, his head thrown back, his mouth agape. And the white sheet under him was red with blood. It had trickled over the edges and to the floor. His eyes were loosely closed. After the first shock Doctor Marston reacted swiftly. He bent over Rossland, and in that moment, when his back was toward them, Captain Rifle’s eyes met Alan’s. The same thought—and in another instant disbelief—flashed from one to the other.
Marston was speaking, professionally cool now. “A knife stab, close to the right lung, if not in it. And an ugly bruise over his eye. He is not dead. Let him lie as he is until I return with instruments and dressing.”
“The door was locked on the inside,” said Alan, as soon as the doctor was gone. “And the window is closed. It looks like—suicide. It is possible—there was an understanding between them—and Rossland chose this way instead of the sea?”