rather expressionless eyes of the successful business man,--were wide
open and fixed in a sightless stare, his rather full mouth, with its
clean-shaven lips, was rigid and stern. With the broad forehead, the
prominent brows, the bold, aggressive nose, and the square bony jaw, it
was a fighter's face, a fine face save for the evil promise of that
sensuous mouth. So thought the doctor with the swift psychological
process of his trade.

From the face his gaze travelled to the body. And then Romain could not
repress an involuntary start, albeit he saw what he had half expected to
see. The fleshy right hand of Hartley Parrish grasped convulsively an
automatic pistol. His clutching index finger was crooked about the
trigger and the barrel was pressed into the yielding pile of the carpet.
His other hand with clawing fingers was flung out away from the body on
the other side. One leg was stretched out to its fullest extent and the
foot just touched the hem of the grey window curtains. The other leg was
slightly drawn up.

The doctor raised the lamp from the desk and, dropping on one knee,
placed it on the ground beside the body. With gentle fingers he
manipulated the eyes, opened the blue serge coat and waistcoat which
Parrish was wearing. As he unbuttoned the waistcoat, he laid bare a dark
red stain on the breast of the fine silk shirt. He opened shirt and
under-vest, bent an ear to the still form, and then, with a little
helpless gesture, rose to his feet.

"Dead?" queried Trevert.

Romain nodded shortly.