Would he come back to consciousness and be able to answer questions, or would those be his last words on earth? They could not tell. His form had relapsed into its previous rigidity and his face had grown more waxen in its hue.
What was the explanation of his being dressed in her father’s clothes? Sheila was sure they were the same Reginald Monkton had won on setting out that evening.
A sudden thought struck her. She inserted her hand gently in his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a gold watch. It was her father’s; she had given it to him on his last birthday. She felt in the breast pocket of his coat, but it was empty. That told her little, for she did not know if he had taken any papers with him.
She felt in his pockets one by one, but only discovered a little loose silver. It was her father’s habit always to carry a few banknotes in a leather case. If he had done so to-night these had been abstracted. But if the money had been taken, why not the watch? And then she recollected it was inscribed with his name.
While she was pondering these disturbing queries. Doctor Macalister entered the room with Austin, who had imparted to him the startling news in a few words.
He bent over the quiet form, murmuring as he did so: “He is dressed in Mr Monkton’s clothes, certainly. I might have been deceived at the first glance myself.”
He unbuttoned the waistcoat and shirt, and laid his stethoscope on the chest of the inanimate body.
“Dead!” he said briefly, when he had made his examination. “One cannot, of course, at present tell the cause of death, although the appearances point to heart-failure.”
Sheila looked up at him, her lovely eyes heavy with grief and foreboding.
“He spoke a little before you came in,” she said. “He seemed to utter two names, Molyneux and Mulliner. He repeated them three times.”