Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back
at the road which we had just traversed. A brougham was coming
down it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.
"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes. "That
settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes."
He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long,
deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted
up and I followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door
and we both stood appalled at the sight before us.
A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.
Her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked
upward from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of
the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the
clothes, was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs.
So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never looked
up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
"Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"
"Yes, yes; I am -- but you are too late. She is dead."
The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand
that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his
assistance.
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