natured contempt. "You can bank on it if the Captain says so. . . . You see, sir, nothing smaller than a forty-four or forty-five will stop a man, and these steel-capped army bullets go through a human skull like it was cheese. But in order to carry straight to the woodwork the gun had to be held pretty close; and as there aren't any powder marks on the face, it's a safe bet to take the Captain's figures as to distance."
At this point we heard the front door open and close, and Dr. Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner, accompanied by his assistant, bustled in. He shook hands with Markham and Inspector O'Brien, and gave Heath a friendly salutation.
"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," he apologized.
He was a nervous man with a heavily seamed face and the manner of a real-estate salesman.
"What have we got here?" he asked, in the same breath, making a wry face at the body in the chair.
"You tell us, Doc," retorted Heath.
Dr. Doremus approached the murdered man with a callous indifference indicative of a long process of hardening. He first inspected the face closely,—he was, I imagine, looking for powder marks. Then he glanced at the bullet hole in the forehead and at the ragged wound in the back of the head. Next he moved the dead man's arm, bent the fingers, and pushed the head a little to the side. Having satisfied himself as to the state of rigor mortis, he turned to Heath.
"Can we get him on the settee there?"
Heath looked at Markham inquiringly.
"All through, sir?"
