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He was half-clothed, pale as the white dress of Isabella Dallas, and evidently, from the wild look in his eyes and the quivering of his nether lip, badly scared. Stopping short a few paces from the door, he held up the lamp which he carried, to survey the astonishing scene before him. The sight of Jen tongue-tied and immovable, of Isabella weeping on her knees by the bedside, of the bed itself vacant of its dead occupant--all these things were calculated to shock even stronger nerves than those of David Sarby. Nevertheless, after a pause of sheer astonishment, he managed to stammer out a question: "I am making a call on a friend, Dr. Moore, and not a consultation visit to my physician," I said, looking into his face as though I had never seen him before. Patricia, who denounced recklessness in others, flew to meet him with loud reproaches, regardless of the thronging crowd of undergraduates that were nimbly springing off after him..
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"This is the famous Hughes Junior," said David, introducing him to them collectively. "Collector of dead bugs, and trouble generally. He looks mild, but you want to watch him." "Why no, major. Mr. Sarby was with him." "When I have followed to its end the clew of which we have been speaking," replied Jen, and taking off his hat he walked swiftly away from the house. Swiftly, as he was afraid lest Isabella would ask him indoors, and for certain reasons not unconnected with the late conversation, he did not wish to face Mrs. Dallas at the present moment. There were large issues at stake. "Then let her see the police, sir, although I don't agree with you. She is not the woman to put a rope round her own neck--black as it is.".
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