passed, Gordon gathered the impression of a dark
heap on the hall floor. He dismissed an idle curiosity;
and then, for no discoverable reason, halted,
turned back, for a second glance.

Even from the path he saw extending from the
heap an arm, a gnarled hand. It was Pompey Hollidew
himself, cold, still, on the floor. Gordon
entered, looking outside for assistance: no one was
in sight. Pompey Hollidew wore the familiar,
greenish-black coat, the thread-bare trousers and
faded, yellow shirt. The battered derby had rolled
a short distance across the floor. The dead man's
face was a congested, olive shade, with purple
smudges beneath the up-rolled eyes, and lips like
dried leaves. His end, it was apparent, had been
as sudden as it was natural.

Old Pompey... dead! Gordon straightened
up. Simultaneously two ideas flashed into his
mind -- Lettice and Hollidew's gold. Then they
grew coherent, explicable. Lettice and the gold
were one; she was the gold, the gold was Lettice.
He recalled now, appositely, what Bartamon had
told him but a few days before... Hollidew
would consent to make no will; there were no other
children. The money would automatically go,
principally, to Lettice, without question or contest.
If he had but considered before, acted with ordinary
sense... the girl had been in love with him;

[[139]]

p138 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p139w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p140

v?