As to the man's injuries, a blow from behind had evidently crushed his skull and, though the face was seared and burned, though the curtain's partial ashes covered more than a half of it, though the eye-lashes above the sightless eyes were singed and the trim beard burned to black stubs, the face gave mute evidence of being that of Frederick Cavendish.
In this grim scene a tiny clock on the mantel began pealing the hour of eight.

As though this were a signal for entrance, the door at the end of the bookcase opened noiselessly and a man, smooth faced, his hair brushed low across his forehead, stepped quietly in.

As his eyes surveyed the grewsome object by the table, they dilated with horror; then his whole body stiffened and he fled back into the hall, crashing the door behind him.
Ten minutes later he returned, not alone, however.

This time his companion was John Cavendish but partially dressed, his features white and haggard.
With nervous hands he pushed open the door.

At the sight of the body he trembled a moment, then, mastering himself, strode over and touched the dead face, the other meanwhile edging into the room.
"Dead, sir, really _dead_ ?" the late comer asked.
Cavendish nodded: "For several hours," he answered in an unnatural voice.