He gave it a twitch and the door flew inward, the bolt tearing out a mouthful of the casing.
"Stand back!" said Inspector Val to Mr.Warmdollar, who having already retired to the lower step of the stair, where he sat with his face buried in his hands, hardly required the warning.
One gas jet was burning in the San Reve's room; being turned down to lowest ebb, it was about as illuminative as a glow-worm.

Inspector Val stretched forth his hand and instantly the room was flooded of light.
Inspector Val was neither shocked nor surprised at the spectacle before him; he was case-hardened by a multitude of professional experiences, and besides, for full a fortnight he had read murder in the San Reve's face.
Storri was lying upon the lounge, dead--stone-dead.

A trifling hole in the back of the head showed where the bullet entered in search of his life.

There was a minimum of blood; the few dried drops upon a curling lock of the black hair were all there was to tell how death came.

Storri had been dead for hours; the small thirty-two caliber revolver--being that one which Storri had seen on a memorable night in mid-winter--lay on the floor where it fell from the San Reve's jealous fingers.