Hume was still in the prime of life—perhaps forty, of medium height, sparely built, with clean-shaven face, high forehead, and coal-black hair. A good fellow, in his fashion; but with rather a too professional outlook on to the world. I always felt that he regarded every one with whom he came in contact—man, woman, or child—as a possible subject for experiment. Personally, I was conscious of feeling no dislike for him; but I had a sort of suspicion that he did not like me.
“Yes,” I replied; “that’s Lawrence—what’s left of him.”
He was kneeling by the dead man on the floor, his usually impassive face all alert and eager.
“How has this happened—and when?”
“That is what has to be discovered.”
“Who found him?”
“Atkins and I.”
“Was he lying in this position?”
“No; he was on his face. We turned him over.”
“The man’s been cut to pieces.”