The girl crept close to Marsland and clutched his arm.
“It is Frank Lumsden,” she whispered quickly. “Do you think there is anything wrong with him? Why doesn’t he speak to us?”
“Because he is dead,” he answered swiftly.
“Dead!” she exclaimed, in an hysterical tone. “What makes you think so? He may be only in a fit. Oh, what shall we do?”
Marsland pushed her aside and with a firm step walked to the chair on which the motionless figure sat. He touched with his fingers the left hand which rested on the arm of the chair, and turned quickly.
“He is quite dead,” he said slowly. “He is beyond all help in this world.”
“Dead?” she repeated, retreating to the far end of the table and clasping her trembling hands together. “What a dreadful lonely death.”
He was deep in thought and did not respond to her words.
“As we have discovered the body we must inform the police,” he said at length.
“I did not know he was ill,” she said, in a soft whisper. “He must have died suddenly.”