But the one object across which the golden beams of light fell as
though in soft caress was the motionless figure of a man lying upon his
back beside the table near the drapeless window. Across his face and
shoulders were the charred remains of what undoubtedly had been
curtains on that window. A three-socketed candle-stick filled with
partially burned candles which doubtless had been knocked from the
table was mute evidence of how the tiny flame had started upon its
short march. As to the man's injuries, a blow from behind had
evidently crushed his skull and, though the face was seared and burned,
though the curtain's partial ashes covered more than a half of it,
though the eye-lashes above the sightless eyes were singed and the trim
beard burned to black stubs, the face gave mute evidence of being that
of Frederick Cavendish.
In this grim scene a tiny clock on the mantel began pealing the hour of
eight. As though this were a signal for entrance, the door at the end
of the bookcase opened noiselessly and a man, smooth faced, his hair
brushed low across his forehead, stepped quietly in.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25