"It’s very good of you, doctor," I said; "but, seeing that you are a medical man, I really must ask you to come and look at this youngster first. I’d never forgive myself if by any chance he wasn’t dead. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen death too often not to recognize it, and the boy was stabbed clean through the heart right in front of my eyes—but..." I broke off, as one of the girls leaned forward and whispered to her father. But he only shook his head, and stared at me curiously. "Did you make no effort to stop the murder?" he asked at length. It was the question I had been dreading, the question I knew must come sooner or later. But, now that I was actually confronted with it, I had no answer ready. I could only shake my head and stammer out confusedly: "It seems incredible for a man of my age and experience to confess it, doctor—but I didn’t. I couldn’t.... I was just going to try and separate them, when the girl rushed in ... and..." "What did she do?" It was one of the daughters who fired the question at me so suddenly that I looked at her in amazement. "What did Mary do?" "She got her husband by the knees," I said, "and hung on like a bull-dog. But he’d got a grip on the boy’s throat and then—suddenly—it was all over. They came crashing down as he stabbed young Trelawnay." Once again the girls clung together shuddering, and I turned to the doctor. "I wish you’d come, doctor: it’s only just a step. I can show you the house." "I know the house, sir, very well," he answered, gravely. Then he put his arms on the steering-wheel and for a long time sat motionless staring into the gathering dusk, while I fidgeted restlessly, and the girls whispered together. What on earth was the man waiting for? I wondered: after all, it wasn’t a very big thing to ask of a doctor.... At last he got down from the car and stood beside me on the grass. "You’ve never been here before, sir?" he asked again, looking at me fixedly. "Never," I answered, a shade brusquely. "And I’m not altogether bursting with a desire to return." "Strange," he muttered. "Very, very strange. I will come with you." For a moment he spoke to his daughters as if to reassure them; then, together we walked over the springy turf towards the house by the headland. He seemed in no mood for conversation, and my own mind was far too busy with the tragedy for idle talk. But he asked me one question when we were about fifty yards from the house. "Rupert Carlingham carried his wife up to the headland, you say?" "Slung over his shoulder," I answered, "and then..." But the doctor had stopped short, and was staring at the house, while, once again, every vestige of colour had left his face. "My God!" he muttered, "there’s a light in the room.... A light, man; don’t you see it?" "I left the candles burning," I said, impatiently. "Really, doctor, I suppose murder doesn’t often come your way, but..."