“Yes.”
There was a slight pause. Then:
“The patient was—quiet at the time?”
“The room was dark and still so I did not enter it. I just stood there for a moment holding the door half open; I was afraid if I entered the room I would wake him. He was asleep—that is——” I stopped abruptly as it occurred to me that he had not been asleep; that the incident had occurred not more than fifteen minutes before I found him dead.
O’Leary seemed to read my thoughts.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “He must have been dead—then. Can you be certain of the time?”
“Yes. It was shortly after one-thirty. I remember because I had just noted the time on a patient’s chart, when I heard that dull sound and went to see what it was.”
He returned to his pencil, a shabby little red thing it was, which he rolled absently between his well-kept fingers.
“Was this sound sharp and loud?”
“No—” I hesitated, trying to recall just how it had seemed. “No—it was rather dull—muffled—and yet heavy. It was not very distinct.”