“It’s—it’s blood!” he whispered.
I had seen that at the first glance.
“Shall I go for the police?”
“No,” I said sharply. “He may be only wounded.”
I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible little pool.
“Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?” I shouted; but there was no answer.
“Stand aside. I’m going to break the lock,” I cried.
I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, and caught at the lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung inwards,—to rebound from something that it struck against.
I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and beckoned Jenkins to follow.
Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.