"Summon the coroner," he directed. "We cannot move the body until
he comes."

His curt tone brought the official's wits back with a jump and he
made for the exit, only to be stopped at the threshold by a
sandy-haired man just entering the room.

At the word coroner, Rochester raised himself from his bent attitude
and brushed his hand across his eyes.

"No need for a coroner to diagnose the case," he objected. "Poor
Turnbull always said he would go off like that."

Stone moved nearer. "Like that?" he questioned, pointing to the
still figure. "Explain yourself, Rochester. Did Turnbull expect
to die here in this manner?"

"No - no - certainly not." The lawyer moistened his dry lips. "But
when a man has angina pectoris he knows the end may come at any
moment and in any place. Turnbull made no secret of suffering from
that disease." Rochester turned toward Clymer. "You knew it."

Benjamin Clymer, who had been gazing alternately at the dead man
and vaguely about the room, looked startled at the abrupt question.

"I knew Turnbull had bad attacks of the heart; we all knew it at
the bank," he stated. "But I understood the disease had responded
to treatment."

"There is no cure for angina pectoris," declared Rochester.