removed, a large crowd had collected, and several of the
neighbours ran to see what was going on. They were pretty free
with their comments, by all accounts, and from these it appeared
that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street. The
detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid
foundation of fact, but could not get hold of anything. People
shook their heads and raised their eyebrows and thought the
Herberts rather 'queer,' 'would rather not be seen going into
their house,' and so on, but there was nothing tangible. The
authorities were morally certain the man met his death in some
way or another in the house and was thrown out by the kitchen
door, but they couldn't prove it, and the absence of any
indications of violence or poisoning left them helpless. An odd
case, wasn't it? But curiously enough, there's something more
that I haven't told you. I happened to know one of the doctors
who was consulted as to the cause of death, and some time after
the inquest I met him, and asked him about it. 'Do you really
mean to tell me,' I said, 'that you were baffled by the case,
that you actually don't know what the man died of?' 'Pardon me,'
he replied, 'I know perfectly well what caused death. Blank
died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so
hideously contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I
have seen the faces of a whole host of dead.' The doctor was
usually a cool customer enough, and a certain vehemence in his
manner struck me, but I couldn't get anything more out of him.
I suppose the Treasury didn't see their way to prosecuting the
Herberts for frightening a man to death; at any rate, nothing
was done, and the case dropped out of men's minds. Do you
happen to know anything of Herbert?"