The swinging lantern continued to approach, and then suddenly two men came into sight bearing a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin, through which the shape of a human figure was dimly discernible. They ascended the slope to the platform, and proceeded with their burden to the lamp-room, when the inquisitive gaze of the passengers was transferred to a porter who followed carrying a handbag and umbrella and to the station-master who brought up the rear with his lantern.
As the porter passed, Mr. Boscovitch started forward with sudden excitement.
“Is that his umbrella?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the speaker’s inspection.
“My God!” ejaculated Boscovitch; then, turning sharply to Thorndyke, he exclaimed: “That’s Brodski’s umbrella. I could swear to it. You remember Brodski?”
Thorndyke nodded, and Boscovitch, turning once more to the porter, said: “I identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If you look in his hat, you will see his name written in it. He always writes his name in his hat.”
“We haven’t found his hat yet,” said the porter; “but here is the station-master.” He turned to his superior and announced: “This gentleman, sir, has identified the umbrella.”
“Oh,” said the station-master, “you recognize the umbrella, sir, do you? Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can identify the body.”
Mr. Boscovitch recoiled with a look of alarm. “Is it—is he—very much injured?” he asked nervously.
“Well, yes,” was the reply. “You see, the engine and six of the trucks went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off, in fact.”