n return a clean,
comfortable bed; and I warrant, beforehand, that you won't be interfered
with, or annoyed in anyway, by the man who sleeps in the same room
with you." Saying those words, he looked hard, for a moment, in young
Holliday's face, and then led the way into the room.

It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would be. The
two beds stood parallel with each other, a space of about six feet
intervening between them. They were both of the same medium size, and
both had the same plain white curtains, made to draw, if necessary, all
round them.

The occupied bed was the bed nearest the window. The curtains were all
drawn round it except the half curtain at the bottom, on the side of the
bed furthest from the window. Arthur saw the feet of the sleeping man
raising the scanty clothes into a sharp little eminence, as if he was
lying flat on his back. He took the candle, and advanced softly to draw
the curtain--stopped half way, and listened for a moment--then turned to
the landlord.

"He is a very quiet sleeper," said Arthur. "Yes," said the landlord,
"very quiet." Young Holliday advanced with the candle, and looked in at
the man cautiously.

"How pale he is," said Arthur.

"Yes," returned the landlord, "pale enough, isn't he?"

Arthur looked closer at the man. The bedclothes were drawn up to
his chin, and they lay perfectly still over the region of his chest.
Surprised and vaguely startled as he noticed this, Arthur stooped down
closer over the stranger, looked at his ashy, parted lips, listened
breathlessly for an instant, looked again at the strangely still face,
and the motionless lips and chest, and turned round suddenly on the
landlord with his own cheeks as pale for the moment as the hollow cheeks
of the man on the bed.

"Come here," he whispered, under his breath. "Come here, for God's sake!
The man's not asleep--he is dead."

"You have found that out sooner than I thought you would," said the
landlord, composedly. "Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He died at five
o'clock to-day."

"How did he die? Who is he?" asked Arthur, staggered for the moment by
the audacious coolness of the answer.

"As to who is he," rejoined the landlord, "I know no more about him than
you do. There are his books, and letters, and things all sealed up in
that brown paper parcel for the coroner's inquest to open to-morrow
or next day. He's been here a week, paying his way fairly enough,
and stopping indoors, fo