He did not doubt, he could not doubt, after Ravengar's threats, that she had been murdered. And yet he was not angry then. He did not feel a great grief. He was conscious of no sensation save a numbed and desolate awe. He had not begun to feel. Ledging the lid crossways on the coffin, he placed his hand gently upon Camilla's brow. It was colder than he had expected, and it had the peculiar hard, inelastic touch of incipient decay--that touch which communicates a shudder even to the most impassive. 'I must go,' he whispered, staring spell-bound at her face. He was surprised to find drops of moisture falling on the shroud. They were his tears, and yet he had not known that he was crying. He hid her again beneath the elm plank, and, taking the screws one by one from the mantel-piece, shut her up for ever from any human gaze. And then, nearly collapsing under a nervous tension such as he had never before experienced, he turned to leave the apartment as he had entered it, like a thief. But the mystery of the heavy velvet portiere invincibly attracted him. His steps wavered towards it. He fancied he saw something dark protruding under the curtain, and he pulled the curtain aside with a movement almost hysteric. A man lay extended at full length on his chest in the passage beyond--what Hugo had noticed was his boot. 'Tudor!' he exclaimed, kneeling to examine the half-concealed face. At the same moment a figure came quietly down the passage. Hugo looked up, and saw a sallow-featured man of about thirty-five in a tourist suit, with light beard and hair, and long thin hands. 'What is this?' asked the stranger evenly. 'Who are you?' 'My name is Hugo,' Hugo answered with assurance. 'I was walking along the balconies, as I do sometimes at night, and I heard strange sounds here, and as the window was open I stepped in and found this. Are you a friend of Mr. Tudor's?' The other bent in his turn, and after examining the prone body said: 'I was. He has no friends now.' 'You mean he is dead?' 'He must have died within the last quarter of an hour or so.' 'And nothing can be done?' 'Nothing can be done with death!' 'I take it you are a doctor?' said Hugo. 'My name is Darcy,' the other replied. 'Besides being Tudor's friend, I was his physician.' 'Yet even for a physician,' Hugo pursued, 'it seems to me that you have been able to decide very quickly that your friend and patient is dead. I have always understood that to say with assurance that death has taken place means a very careful and thorough examination.' 'You are right,' Darcy agreed, stroking his short, bright, silky beard. 'There is only one absolute proof of death.' 'And that is?' 'Putrefaction. Nevertheless, the inquest will show whether or not I have been in error.' 'There will have to be an inquest?' 'Certainly. In such a case as this no doctor in his senses would give his certificate without a post-mortem, and though I am an enthusiast, I am in my senses, Mr. Hugo.'