"Well, now then--" The little procession came to a halt at the entry.

The entry was a cold and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to Spargo the idea of a mortuary.

And that the man whose foot projected over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose certified to it.
For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke.

The two policemen unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully--Spargo remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys.
Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human wreckage which lay before him.
"You'll notice," suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed voice, "You'll notice that he's lying there in a queer way--same as if--as if he'd been put there.

Sort of propped up against that wall, at first, and had slid down, like." Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye.