A
third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the
saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the
station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was
completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had
happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was
sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman,
with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up.
Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows at
the lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the
guard. In a very few minutes, however, the station-master
reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by the doctor. The little
crowd stood on one side and the two men stepped into the car.
The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton
Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in
making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his
seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes
still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself
unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed
scarcely a glance at him.
"Is he dead?" the station-master asked.
"Stone-dead!" was the brief answer.
"Good God!" the station-master muttered. "Good God!"
The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man's face.
He was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.
"Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?" the station-master asked.
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