Presently, confused and intermingled voices from above proclaimed the return of Leroux with the doctor.  They were talking in an excited key, the voice of Leroux, especially, sounding almost hysterical.  They created such a disturbance that they attracted the attention of Mr. John Exel, M. P., occupant of the flat below, who at that very moment had returned from the House and was about to insert the key in the lock of his door.  He looked up the stairway, but, all being in darkness, was unable to detect anything.  Therefore he called out:—­

“Is that you, Leroux?  Is anything the matter?”

“Matter, Exel!” cried Leroux; “there’s a devil of a business!  For mercy’s sake, come up!”

His curiosity greatly excited, Mr. Exel mounted the stairs, entering the lobby of Leroux’s flat immediately behind the owner and Dr. Cumberly—­who, like Leroux, was arrayed in a dressing-gown; for he had been in bed when summoned by his friend.

“You are all in the dark, here,” muttered Dr. Cumberly, fumbling for the switch.

“Some one has turned the light out!” whispered Leroux, nervously; “I left it on.”

Dr. Cumberly pressed the switch, turning up the lobby light as Exel entered from the landing.  Then Leroux, entering the study first of the three, switched on the light there, also.

One glance he threw about the room, then started back like a man physically stricken.

“Cumberly!” he gasped, “Cumberly”—­and he pointed to the furry heap by the writing-table.

“You said she lay on the chesterfield,” muttered Cumberly.

“I left her there."...

Dr. Cumberly crossed the room and dropped upon his knees.  He turned the white face toward the light, gently parted the civet fur, and pressed his ear to the silken covering of the breast.  He started slightly and looked into the glazing eyes.

Replacing the fur which he had disarranged, the physician stood up and fixed a keen gaze upon the face of Henry Leroux.  The latter swallowed noisily, moistening his parched lips.

“Is she"... he muttered; “is she"...

“God’s mercy, Leroux!” whispered Mr. Exel—­“what does this mean?”

“The woman is dead,” said Dr. Cumberly.

In common with all medical men, Dr. Cumberly was a physiognomist; he was a great physician and a proportionately great physiognomist.  Therefore, when he looked into Henry Leroux’s eyes, he saw there, and recognized, horror and consternation.  With no further evidence than that furnished by his own powers of perception, he knew that the mystery of this woman’s death was as inexplicable to Henry Leroux as it was inexplicable to himself.

He was a masterful man, with the gray eyes of a diplomat, and he knew Leroux as did few men.  He laid both hands upon the novelist’s shoulders.

“Brace up, old chap!” he said; “you will want all your wits about you.”

“I left her,” began Leroux, hesitatingly—­“I left"...