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"He has a broken neck."

"What!"

"See for yourself."

Lord Marcus, his lips moving as if in silent prayer, did not stir. He looked straight before him in the direction of the closed door, which inside was panelled with dull silver and engraved with cabalistic inscriptions. Firth and Detective-sergeant Bluett joined Dr. Fawcett.

They saw the body of a man of no more than medium height, but of good figure. He wore a double breasted dinner jacket and its usual accompaniments, and his face, closely shaven except for a moustache resembling a pencilled line, was that of one thirty-five or forty years of age, who in life might have been conventionally handsome. He had abundant wavy dark hair, carefully dressed, and all those attributes of good grooming which are usually associated with a man of culture. His complexion, however, and his expression, if expression it could be called, were unpleasant to see. He appeared to have sustained a tremendous blow on the brow above his right eye, and his head was twisted in a grotesquely horrible manner.