Brown assented. He did not talk as much as his quicker-witted colleague, but his rather slow mind was working at its normal speed.
"We've got to examine the other floors, you know. I've made up my mind to one thing—whoever came in here, robbery wasn't the object."
"There I quite agree," remarked the younger man.
They made their way down from the top floor, which consisted of three attics. On the floor beneath this, they searched every room and found nothing.
But on the floor underneath their search was rewarded. In a small dressing-room, leading off the bedroom which fronted the square, they found a gruesome sight—the lifeless body of a man, comparatively young, somewhere about thirty-five or so, a deep gash in his throat, in his stiffened hand a razor.
The two men gazed, horrified. It was an early summer morning, the sun was shining through the windows, the birds were twittering in the trees. Shortly the whole world would be astir. And here, in the small room, lay the senseless clay, oblivious of all these signs of awakening life and vigour.
Brown was the first to speak. "Suicide!" he said hoarsely. "The poor devil wanted to make an end of it, and crept in here, knowing it was an empty house."
The younger man spoke less convincingly. "It looks like it. Suicide, as you say." He paused a moment, and then spoke slowly: "I think it's suicide, but it might be—mind you, I only say might be—a very carefully planned murder. And now, let us overhaul his pockets, we may find something to establish identification."
Together they bent down, and rummaged the dead man's pockets. They found plenty of material for identification.
As they were engaged in their gruesome task, they heard the sound of a latch-key being put in the front-door. They heard the door banged to, and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.