“It’s exactly five minutes past twelve,” said I. “We’ve slept barely an
hour.”
“Then the sooner I clear out the better it will be for both of us,” said
he.
He went away slowly, and I heard him strike a match in his own room. He
evidently meant to light his candle.
Some hours had passed before I fell into an uneasy sleep, and once more
I was awakened by Arthur Jephson, who stood by my bedside. The morning
light was in the room.
“For God’s sake, come into Tom’s room!” he whispered. “He’s dead!--Tom
is dead!”
I tried to realise his words. Some moments had elapsed before I
succeeded in doing so. I sprang from my bed and ran down the corridor
to the room occupied by Tom Singleton. The landlord and a couple of
servants were already there. They had burst in the door.
It was but too true: our poor friend lay on his bed with his body bent
and his arms twisted as though he had been struggling desperately with
some one at his last moment. His face, too, was horribly contorted, and
his eyes were wide open.
“A doctor,” I managed to say.
“He’s already sent for, sir,” said the landlord.
In a few moments the doctor arrived.
“Cardiac attack,” said he. “Was he alone in the room? No, he can’t have
been alone.”
“He was quite alone,” said Arthur. “I knocked at the door a quarter of
an hour ago, but getting no answer, I tried to force the lock. It was
too strong for me; but the landlord and the man-servant who was bringing
us our hot water burst in the door at my request.”
“And the window--was it fastened?” asked the doctor.
“It was secure, sir,” said the landlord.
“Ah, a sudden cardiac attack,” said the doctor.
There was, of course, an inquest, but as no evidence of foul play was
forthcoming, the doctor’s phrase “cardiac attack” satisfied the jury,
and a verdict of “Death from natural causes” was returned.
Before I went back to town I examined the room in which our poor friend
had died. On the side of one of the window-shutters there were four
curious burnt marks. They gave one the impression that the shutter had
at one time been grasped by a man wearing a red-hot gauntlet.
I started for India before the end of the year and remained there for
eight months. Then I thought I would pay a visit to a sister of mine in
Queensland. On my return at the end of the year I meant to stop at Cairo
for a few weeks. On entering Shepheard’s Hotel I found myself face to
face with Arthur Jephson and his wife--he called her Sylvia. They had
been married in August, but their honeymoon seemed still to be in its
first quarter. It was after Mrs Jephson had retired, and when Arthur was
sitting with me enjoying the cool of the night by the aid of a pretty
strong cigar or two, that we ventured to allude to the tragic occurrence
which marked our last time of meeting.
“I wish to beg of you not to make any allusion to that awful business
in the hearing of my wife,” said Arthur. “In fact I must ask you not to
allude to that fearful room in the Priory in any way.”
“I will be careful not to do so,” said I. “You have your own reasons, I
suppose, for giving me this warning.”
“I have the best of reasons, Jim. She too had her experience of that
room, and it was as terrible as ours.”
“Good heavens! I heard nothing of that. She did not sleep in that room?”
“Thank God, she didn’t. I arrived in time to save her.”