There was the sound of some commotion outside, the sound of hurried footsteps and agitated voices.  Then a terrible little procession appeared.  Something—­it seemed to be a shapeless heap of clothes—­was carried in and laid upon the floor, in the little space between the revolving doors and the inner entrance.  Two blue-liveried attendants kept back the horrified but curious crowd.  Francis, vaguely recognised as being somehow or other connected with the law, was one of the few people allowed to remain whilst a doctor, fetched out from the dancing-room, kneeled over the prostrate form.  He felt that he knew beforehand the horrible verdict which the latter whispered in his ear after his brief examination.

“Quite dead!  A ghastly business!”

Francis gazed at the hole in the shirt-front, disfigured also by a scorching stain.

“A bullet?” he asked.

The doctor nodded.

“Fired within a foot of the poor fellow’s heart,” he whispered.  “The murderer wasn’t taking any chances, whoever he was.”

“Have the police been sent for?”

The head-porter stepped forward.

“There was a policeman within a few yards of the spot, sir,” he replied.  “He’s gone down to keep every one away from the place where we found the body.  We’ve telephoned to Scotland Yard for an inspector.”

The doctor rose to his feet.

“Nothing more can be done,” he pronounced.  “Keep the people out of here whilst I go and fetch my hat and coat.  Afterwards, I’ll take the body to the mortuary when the ambulance arrives.”

An attendant pushed his way through the crowd of people on the inner side of the door.

“Miss Daisy Hyslop, young lady who was with Mr. Bidlake, has just fainted in the ladies’ room, sir,” he announced.  “Could you come?”

“I’ll be there immediately,” the doctor promised.

The rest of the proceedings followed a normal course.  The police arrived, took various notes, the ambulance followed a little later, the body was removed, and the little crowd of guests, still infected with a sort of awed excitement, were allowed to take their leave.  Francis and Wilmore drove almost in silence to the former’s rooms in Clarges Street.

“Come up and have a drink, Andrew,” Francis invited.

“I need it,” was the half-choked response.

Francis led the way in silence up the two flights of stairs into his sitting-room, mixed whiskies and sodas from the decanter and syphon which stood upon the sideboard, and motioned his friend to an easy-chair.  Then he gave form to the thought which had been haunting them both.

“What about our friend Sir Timothy Brast?” he enquired.  “Do you believe now that he was pulling our legs?”

Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.  It was a chilly evening, but there were drops of perspiration still standing there.

“Francis,” he confessed, “it’s horrible!  I don’t think realism like this attracts me.  It’s horrible!  What are we going to do?”