alive--that the horror within the cab was real. This time he uttered an
"Oh, my God!"

The words seemed to vitalize him. He fumbled for another match, found it,
and lighted it within the cab. It seemed to have the radiance of an
incandescent.

Spike had hoped that his first impression would prove to be a mere
figment of his imagination; but now there was no doubting. There,
sprawled in an ugly, inhuman heap on the floor, head resting against the
cushioned seat of the cab, was the figure of a man. There was no doubt
that he was dead. Even Spike, young, optimistic, and unversed in the ways
of death as he was, knew that he was alone with a corpse.

And as he gazed, a strange courage came to him. He found himself
emboldened to investigate. He was shivering while he did so, shivering
with fear and with the terrific cold of the night. He could not quite
bring himself to touch the body, but he did not need to move it to see
that murder had been done.

The clothes told him instantly that the man was of high social station.
They were obviously expensive clothes, probably tailor-made. The big
coat, open at the top, was flung back. Beneath, Spike discerned a gray
tweed--and on the breast of the gray tweed was a splotch, a dark, ugly
thing which appeared black and was not black. Spike shuddered. He had
never liked the sight of blood.

The match spluttered and went out. Spike looked around. He felt
hopelessly alone. Not a pedestrian; not a light. The houses, set well
back from the street, were dark, forbiddingly dark.