"What is that?" cried Winter sharply.
The butler arose.
"Didn't Mr. Hilton mention it, sir?" he said. "Dr. Stern must hold a post mortem before the inquest, and he suggested that it could be carried through more easily in the mortuary attached to the Cottage Hospital. Isn't that all right, sir?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Go, by all means. We'll wait here."
When they were alone, the two detectives remained silent for a long minute. Winter arose and looked through a window at the scene outside. A closed hearse had arrived; some men were carrying in a rough coffin and three trestles. There was none of the gorgeous trappings which lend dignity to such transits in public. Polished oak and gleaming brass and rare flowers would add pageantry later; this was the livery of the dissecting-room.
"Queer case!" growled Winter over his shoulder.
"If only Hilton had breakfasted early this morning!" said Furneaux.
"If the dog hadn't stopped to scratch himself he would have caught the hare," was the irritable answer.
"Aren't you pleased with Tomlinson, then?"