Arthur looked closer at the man. The bedclothes were drawn up to
his chin, and they lay perfectly still over the region of his
chest. Surprised and vaguely startled as he noticed this, Arthur
stooped down closer over the stranger, looked at his ashy, parted
lips, listened breathlessly for an instant, looked again at the
strangely still face, and the motionless lips and chest, and
turned round suddenly on the landlord with his own cheeks as pale
for the moment as the hollow cheeks of the man on the bed.

"Come here," he whispered, under his breath. "Come here, for
God's sake! The man's not asleep--he is dead."

"You have found that out sooner than I thought you would," said
the landlord, composedly. "Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He died
at five o'clock to-day."

"How did he die? Who is he?" asked Arthur, staggered for the
moment by the audacious coolness of the answer.

"As to who is he," rejoined the landlord, "I know no more about
him than you do. There are his books, and letters, and things all
sealed up in that brown paper parcel for the coroner's inquest to
open to-morrow or next day. He's been here a week, paying his way
fairly enough, and stopping indoors, for the most part, as if he
was ailing. My girl brought him up his tea at five to-day, and as
he was pouring of it out, he fell down in a faint, or a fit, or a
compound of both, for anything I know. We couldn't bring him to,
and I said he was dead. And, the doctor couldn't bring him to,
and the doctor said he was dead. And there he is. And the
coroner's inquest's coming as soon as it can. And that's as much