As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced.  We all went up-stairs, at once, to the top story.  I noticed that the Sergeant was unusually grave, even for him.  It also struck me as odd that he told the boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait in the room below till we came down again.

The carpenter’s hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the door in a few minutes.  But some article of furniture had been placed against it inside, as a barricade.  By pushing at the door, we thrust this obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room.  The landlord entered first; the Sergeant second; and I third.  The other persons present followed us.

We all looked towards the bed, and all started.

The man had not left the room.  He lay, dressed, on the bed—­with a white pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.

“What does that mean?” said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.

Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed the pillow.

The man’s swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard were slightly, very slightly, discomposed.  His eyes stared wide-open, glassy and vacant, at the ceiling.  The filmy look and the fixed expression of them horrified me.  I turned away, and went to the open window.  The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the bed.

“He’s in a fit!” I heard the landlord say.

“He’s dead,” the Sergeant answered.  “Send for the nearest doctor, and send for the police.”

The waiter was despatched on both errands.  Some strange fascination seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed.  Some strange curiosity seemed to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do next.

I turned again to the window.  The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull at my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered, “Look here, sir!”

Gooseberry had followed us into the room.  His loose eyes rolled frightfully—­not in terror, but in exultation.  He had made a detective-discovery on his own account.  “Look here, sir,” he repeated—­and led me to a table in the corner of the room.

On the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty.  On one side of the box lay some jewellers’ cotton.  On the other side, was a torn sheet of white paper, with a seal on it, partly destroyed, and with an inscription in writing, which was still perfectly legible.  The inscription was in these words: 

“Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed up in this envelope, and containing a valuable of great price.  The box, when claimed, to be only given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal application of Mr. Luker.”

Those lines removed all further doubt, on one point at least.  The sailor had been in possession of the Moonstone, when he had left the bank on the previous day.