The landlord paused by a door numbered with a black number.

“He is in here,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Tomorrow they sit on him.  After that he go from me.  Mon Dieu!  I am glad when he is gone.  My custom he is spoilt.  My house get a bad name, and like a dog they hang him.  Mon Dieu!”

He opened the door stealthily, forming “St!” with his fat, coarse lips.

“I light the gas.  It is all dark.”

“No, no,” Julian said, taking the candle from him, “I will do that.  Go down.”

He motioned him away, and entered the room, followed by Valentine, at whom the landlord again stared with a greedy consideration and curiosity, before turning to retreat softly down the narrow stairs.

They found themselves in a good-sized room, typically of London.  It was full of the peculiar and unmistakable metropolitan smell, a stale odor of the streets that suggests smuts to the mind.  Two windows, with a long dingy mirror set between them, looked out towards the Euston Road.  Venetian blinds and thin white curtains looped with yellow ribbon shrouded them.  On a slab that stuck out under the mirror was placed a bundle of curling-pins tied with white tape, a small brush and comb, and a bottle of cherry-blossom scent.  Near the mirror stood a narrow sofa covered with red rep.  Upon this lay a man’s upturned top-hat, in the corner of which reposed a pair of reindeer gloves.  A walking-stick with a gold top stood against the wall, in a corner by the marble mantlepiece.  In the middle of the room lay a small open portmanteau, disclosing a disorder of shirts, handkerchiefs, and boots, a cheque-book, a bottle of brandy, and some brushes.  By the fireplace there was a vulgar-looking arm-chair upholstered in red.  The room was full of the faint sound of London voices and London traffic.

Julian went straight up to the gas chandelier and lit all three jets.  His action was hurried and abrupt.  Then he set the candle down beside the bundle of curling-pins, and turned sharply round to face the bed.  The room was now a glare of light, and in this glare of light the broad bed with its white counterpane and sheets stood out harshly enough.  The sheets were turned smoothly down under the blue chin of the dead man, who lay there upon his back, his face with fast-shut eyes dusky white, or rather grey, among the pillows.  As Julian looked upon him he exclaimed: 

“Good God, it isn’t Marr!  Valentine, it isn’t Marr!”

“Not?”

“No.  And yet—­wait a moment—­”

Julian came nearer to the bed and bent right down over the corpse.  Then he drew away and looked at Valentine, who was at the other side of the bed.

“Oh, Valentine, this is strange,” he whispered, and drawing a chair to the bedside, he sank down upon it.  “This is strange.  What is it death does to a man?  Yes; this is Marr.  I see now; but so different, so altered!  The whole expression,—­oh, it is almost incredible.”