The man himself was not altogether prepossessing.  Fat as he was, he had a way of carrying his head forward on his extended neck and gazing widely about with a pair of the roundest and most prominent eyes I remember to have ever seen, except in a fish.  On the whole, his appearance was rather vulgar, rather arrogant, and rather suspicious, without any very pronounced quality of any sort.  But certainly he was not pretty.  In the end, however, he was found shot dead in his sitting-room.

It was in this way:  Hewitt and I had dined together at my club, and late in the evening had returned to my rooms to smoke and discuss whatever came uppermost.  I had made a bargain that day with two speculative odd lots at a book sale, each of which contained a hidden prize.  We sat talking and turning over these books while time went unperceived, when suddenly we were startled by a loud report.  Clearly it was in the building.  We listened for a moment, but heard nothing else, and then Hewitt expressed his opinion that the report was that of a gunshot.  Gunshots in residential chambers are not common things, wherefore I got up and went to the landing, looking up the stairs and down.

At the top of the next flight I saw Mrs. Clayton, the housekeeper.  She appeared to be frightened, and told me that the report came from Mr. Foggatt’s room.  She thought he might have had an accident with the pistol that usually lay on his mantel-piece.  We went upstairs with her, and she knocked at Mr. Foggatt’s door.

There was no reply.  Through the ventilating fanlight over the door it could be seen that there were lights within, a sign, Mrs. Clayton maintained, that Mr. Foggatt was not out.  We knocked again, much more loudly, and called, but still ineffectually.  The door was locked, and an application of the housekeeper’s key proved that the tenant’s key had been left in the lock inside.  Mrs. Clayton’s conviction that “something had happened” became distressing, and in the end Hewitt pried open the door with a small poker.

Something had happened.  In the sitting-room Mr. Foggatt sat with his head bowed over the table, quiet and still.  The head was ill to look at, and by it lay a large revolver, of the full-sized army pattern.  Mrs. Clayton ran back toward the landing with faint screams.

“Run, Brett!” said Hewitt; “a doctor and a policeman!”

I bounced down the stairs half a flight at a time.  “First,” I thought, “a doctor.  He may not be dead.”  I could think of no doctor in the immediate neighborhood, but ran up the street away from the Strand, as being the more likely direction for the doctor, although less so for the policeman.  It took me a good five minutes to find the medico, after being led astray by a red lamp at a private hotel, and another five to get back, with a policeman.