"Why, I saw him turn in here about half-past eleven!" observed the officer, "He is in a fit, perhaps."
"Why do you say that?" asked Joseph.
"Because he had been taking a drop too much. He could hardly walk. Somebody brought him as far as the gate."
Mr. Glenn had hastened on. The policeman followed with Joseph. Followed, possibly, to gratify his curiosity; possibly, because he thought his services might be in some way required. When the two entered the dining-room, Mr. Glenn was kneeling down to examine Anthony, and sounds of distress came on their ears from a distance. They were caused by the hysterics of Mrs. Dare.
"Is he dead, sir?" asked the policeman, in a low tone.
"He has been dead these two or three hours," was Mr. Glenn's reply.
But it was not a fit. It was not anything so innocent. Mr. Glenn found that the cause of death was a stab in the side. Death, he believed, must have been instantaneous: and the hemorrhage was chiefly internal. There were very few stains on the clothes.
"What's this!" cried Mr. Glenn.
He was pulling at some large substance on which Anthony had fallen. It proved to be a cloak. Cyril—and some others present—recognised it as Herbert's cloak. Where was Herbert? In bed? Was it possible that he could sleep through the noise and confusion that the house was in?
"Can nothing be done?" asked Mr. Dare of the surgeon.