The proprietor said that the old man had not appeared.
“Did he request you to call him?” he inquired.
“No,” the bartender answered. “Shall I go up and ask him if he wants breakfast?”
“Yes.”
The bartender ascended to the attic.
The door of the room which the old man had been assigned to stood ajar.
The man knocked, but there was no answer. He pounded again and shouted. Still no answer. Finally the man pushed the door open. A terrible sight met his gaze. Stretched out upon the bed he beheld the old man, with his throat cut from ear to ear. His hands were folded across his breast, and he was covered by the coverlet of the bed. Evidently there had been no struggle.
The bartender uttered a cry of alarm, but he did not enter the room.
As soon as he recovered from his surprise he dashed off downstairs, crying “Murder!” at the top of his voice.
Instantly the house was aroused, and in a short time a great crowd congregated in the street in front of the door.