There could
be no life in that livid face, in those glassy eyes.
"Don't touch him," I said, for Vantine had started forward. "It's too
late."
I drew him back, and we stood for a moment shaken as one always is by
sudden and unexpected contact with death.
"Who is he?" I asked, at last.
"I don't know," answered Vantine hoarsely. "I never saw him before."
Then he strode to the bell and rang it violently. "Parks," he went on
sternly, as that worthy appeared at the door, "what has been going on
in here?"
"Going on, sir?" repeated Parks, with a look of amazement, not only
at the words, but at the tone in which they were uttered. "I'm sure I
don't know what--"
Then his glance fell upon the huddled body, and he stopped short, his
eyes staring, his mouth open.
"Well," said his master, sharply. "Who is he? What is he doing here?"
"Why--why," stammered Parks, thickly, "that's the man who was waiting
to see you, sir."
"You mean he has been killed in this house?" demanded Vantine.
"He was certainly alive when he came in, sir," said Parks, recovering
something of his self-possession. "Maybe he was just looking for a
quiet place where he could kill himself.
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