Then he turned towards Quest's study on the left hand side.

French was a man of iron nerve.

He had served his time in the roughest quarters of New York.
He had found himself face to face with every sort of crime, yet as he opened that door, he seemed to feel some premonition of what was to come.
He stepped across the threshold.

No power on earth could have kept back the cry which broke from his lips.
The curtains of the window which looked out on to the street, were drawn, and the light was none too good.

It was sufficient for him, however, to see without difficulty the details of a ghastly tragedy.