So startling had been the discovery, and so curious the whole of the events of that morning, that I had scarcely felt any grief at the loss of my friend. It did not seem really true that Roddy Morgan, my very best chum, was actually dead; cut off in a moment in the prime of his manhood by some mysterious, but fatal, cause, which even the doctor had not yet decided.
As the minutes passed, slowly ticked out by the clock upon the mantel-shelf, I could not help sharing with the detective some doubts regarding Ash. Had he absconded?
If murder had actually been committed, then robbery was not the object of the crime, for on the writing-table were lying a couple of five-pound notes open, without any attempt at concealment. Roddy was always a careless fellow over money matters.
At last, at nearly half-past two, we heard the click of a key in the latch, and there entered the man whom we had been awaiting so long.
He walked straight into the sitting-room, but when he saw us, drew back quickly in surprise, muttering—
“I beg pardon, gentlemen.”
“No, come in,” the detective said, and as he obeyed his eyes fell upon his master, reclining there with his face covered with the silk handkerchief.
“Good heavens, sir, what’s happened?” he gasped, pale in alarm.
“A very serious catastrophe,” the officer answered. “Your master is dead!”
“Dead!” he gasped, his clean-shaven face pallid in fright. “Dead! He can’t be!”