Afterwards, silence.
There was the sound of some commotion outside, the sound of
hurried footsteps and agitated voices. Then a terrible little
procession appeared. Something--it seemed to be a shapeless heap
of clothes--was carried in and laid upon the floor, in the little
space between the revolving doors and the inner entrance. Two
blue-liveried attendants kept back the horrified but curious
crowd. Francis, vaguely recognised as being somehow or other
connected with the law, was one of the few people allowed to
remain whilst a doctor, fetched out from the dancing-room,
kneeled over the prostrate form. He felt that he knew beforehand
the horrible verdict which the latter whispered in his ear after
his brief examination.
"Quite dead! A ghastly business!"
Francis gazed at the hole in the shirt-front, disfigured also by
a scorching stain.
"A bullet?" he asked.
The doctor nodded.
"Fired within a foot of the poor fellow's heart," he whispered.
"The murderer wasn't taking any chances, whoever he was."
"Have the police been sent for?"
The head-porter stepped forward.
"There was a policeman within a few yards of the spot, sir," he
replied. "He's gone down to keep every one away from the place
where we found the body. We've telephoned to Scotland Yard for
an inspector.
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