Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold. "Surely he's not dead, sir!" gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice. "I hope not," was Sainsbury's reply. "If so, there's a mystery here that we must solve." Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, "Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!" "I'll get some water," suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master's face. Sainsbury, who had the doctor's head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man. "What can have happened?" queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands. "It's a mystery, sir--ain't it?" remarked Thomasson. "One thing is certain--that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It's still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed." "I'll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He's the doctor's greatest friend," suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery. It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram's departure and Jack's arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery. Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there? He gazed down into his friend's white, drawn face--a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified. He bent to his friend's breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctor's lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath. Was he dead? Surely not. Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he. He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.