"Yes, please get a locksmith at once," said Francis Eversleigh.
In about five minutes the porter returned with a locksmith, who set to work and forced the lock, but not without a considerable expenditure of time and labour.
As the door was opened, a fœtid, noisome odour rushed out and filled the landing. The locksmith involuntarily stepped back.
"Whiff, whiff, what's that?" cried he, while the others exclaimed about the horrible smell.
It was the locksmith who entered the room first, a few feet in advance of the others. Instantly he uttered a loud shout of terrified surprise. The others now pressed in after him, Francis Eversleigh the last.
There lay the body of a man, face downwards, on the floor.
Eversleigh, with a countenance as white as chalk, looked from the body to his son, and back to the body again. Gilbert was as white as his father. The other men looked mutely at the figure lying on the floor; it seemed to fascinate them. No one spoke a word. A great question shaped itself in the stillness of that room, but none of them was eager, for the moment, to find the answer.
Who was the man—the man who lay dead?
Other questions came into their minds, but this was first.
"We must see the man's face," said Gilbert, and his voice broke the spell which seemed to hold them powerless.