We all looked towards the bed, and all started.
The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed—with a white pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.
“What does that mean?” said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.
Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed the pillow.
The man’s swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard were slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open, glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed expression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open window. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the bed.
“He’s in a fit!” I heard the landlord say.
“He’s dead,” the Sergeant answered. “Send for the nearest doctor, and send for the police.”
The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do next.
I turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull at my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered, “Look here, sir!”
Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes rolled frightfully—not in terror, but in exultation. He had made a detective-discovery on his own account. “Look here, sir,” he repeated—and led me to a table in the corner of the room.