"How long has he been dead?" he asked.
The doctor glanced at the bullet wound in the forehead, and from there significantly to the group around the couch.
"Not an hour—probably less than half," he said. "It's strange we heard nothing, across the hall there."
Hunter took a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket and opening it laid it gently over the dead face. I think it was a relief to all of us. The doctor got up from his kneeling posture beside the couch, and looked at Hunter inquiringly.
"What about getting him away from here?" he said. "There is sure to be a lot of noise about it, and—you remember what happened when Butler killed himself here."
"He was reported as being found dead in the lumber yard," Hunter said dryly. "Well, Doctor, this body stays where it is, and I don't give a whoop if the whole city government wants it moved. It won't be. This is murder, not suicide."
The doctor's expression was curious.
"Murder!" he repeated. "Why—who—"
But Hunter had many things to attend to; he broke in ruthlessly on the doctor's amazement.
"See if you can get the house empty, Doctor; just tell them he is dead—the story will get out soon enough."