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.
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