The rest of the searchers, hearing that startled cry from the Jew, with one accord made for the upper part of the building. Robmore and Hetherwick reached him first; he was standing at the half-opened door of a room, into which he was staring with eager eyes. They pushed by him and entered.  
Hetherwick took in the general aspect and contents of that room at a glance. It had been fitted up—recently, he thought, from certain small evidences—as a bed-sitting-room. A camp-bed stood in one corner; there was a washstand, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, two or three pictures, a shelf of books, a small square of carpet in the centre of the floor, the outer edges of which had been roughly and newly stained. On the bed lay, open, a suit-case, already packed with clothes and linen; by it lay an overcoat, hat, gloves, umbrella; it was evident that the man to whom it belonged had completed his preparations for a departure, and had nothing to do but to close and lock the suit-case, put on his overcoat and hat, pick up the other things and go away.
 
But the man himself? There was a big, old-fashioned easy chair at the side of the bed—a roomy, comfortable affair. A man lay, rather than sat, in it, in an attitude which suggested that he had dropped there as with a sudden weariness, laid his head back against the padded cushion, and—gone to sleep. But the men knew, all of them, as they crowded into that room, that it was no sleep that they had broken in upon—it was death. This, as the Jew had been quick to see, was a dead man—dead!
 
Hetherwick took him in as quickly as he had taken in his surroundings. His head lay quietly against the padding of the chair, a little inclined to his left shoulder: the face was fully visible. It was—to Hetherwick—the face of a stranger; in all his and Matherfield's investigations it had not been described to them. Yet he was certain that he was looking on the man known to them by repute as Ambrose. Disguised, of course—he had shaved off the dark beard and moustache of which they had heard, and he could see at once that the loss of them had made a remarkable difference in his appearance. But nothing could disguise his height and general build. This, without doubt, was the man Matherfield and he had hunted for, the man who had met Hannaford at Victoria, who had disappeared from his flat in the Adelphi—the man who was associated with Baseverie, and who——
 
"Dead as a door-nail!" muttered Robmore, bending close to the still figure. "And—he's been dead a good bit, too!—some hours, anyway. Stiff! Do ye know him, Mr. Hetherwick?"
 
Hetherwick said what he thought. Robmore pointed to the things on the bed.
 
"Looks as if he'd been taken with a seizure just as he was about to set off somewhere," he remarked. "Well, if this is the Dr. Ambrose we've been seeking—but let's see if he's got anything on him to prove his identity."
 
While the rest of the men stood by watching, he put his hand into the dead man's inside breast pocket—he was wearing a smart, brand-new grey tweed suit, Hetherwick, later on, remembered how its newness struck him as being incongruously out of place, somehow—and drew out a pocket-book. Touching Hetherwick's elbow and motioning him to follow him, he went over to the window, leaving the others still staring wonderingly at the dead man.
 
"This is a queer business, Mr. Hetherwick," he whispered as they drew apart. "You think this is the Dr. Ambrose we were after?"
 
"Sure of it!" answered Hetherwick. "He's shaved off his beard and moustache, and that's no doubt made a big difference in his appearance, but you may depend on it, this is the man! But what's caused his sudden death?"
 
Then a keen, vivid recollection flashed up in him, and he turned sharply, glancing at the rigid figure in the background.
 
"What is it?" asked Robmore curiously. "Something strikes you?"
 
Hetherwick pointed to the dead man's attitude.
 
"That's—that's just how Hannaford looked when he died in the railway carriage!" he whispered. "After the first signs—you know—he laid back and—died. Just like that—as if he'd dropped quietly asleep. Can—can it be that——"
 
"I know what you're thinking," muttered Robmore. "Poisoned! Well—what about—eh—the other man?"
 
"Baseverie!" exclaimed Hetherwick.
 
"Why not?—to rid himself of an accomplice! But—this pocket-book," said Robmore. "Let's see what's in it. Doesn't seem to be anything very much, by the thinness."
 
From one flap of the pocket-book he drew out a wad of carefully-folded bank notes, and rapidly turned them over.
 
"Hundred and fifty pounds there," he remarked. "And what's this paper—a draft on a New York bank for two hundred. New York, eh? So that's where he was bound? And this," he went on, turning out the other flap. "Ah! see this, Mr. Hetherwick? He'd got his passage booked by the Maratic, sailing to-night. Um! And Matherfield's gone to Southampton, after Baseverie. I'm beginning to see a bit into this, I think."
 
"What do you see?" asked Hetherwick.
 
"Well, it looks to me as if Baseverie had gone ahead to collect that box containing the jewels, and that Ambrose was to follow later, join him there, when Baseverie had secured the loot, and that they were then to be off with their harvest! But—do you notice this—the name under which the passage is booked? Not Ambrose—Charles Andrews, Esquire. Andrews! And Baseverie is Basing. Basing and Andrews. Now I wonder if they carried on business here under these names?"
 
"That's an unimportant detail," said Hetherwick. "The important thing, surely, is—that! How did that man come by his death?"
 
"Well, but I don't think that is very important—just now," replied Robmore. "After all, he is dead, and whether he died as the result of a sudden seizure, or whether Baseverie cleverly poisoned him before he left, is a question we'll have to settle later. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Hetherwick—I'll lay anything he didn't poison himself! Look round—there isn't a sign of anything he's been drinking out of. No, sir—the other man's done this. And if Matherfield has the luck to lay hands on him to-night—ah! But now, what was this your clerk, Mapperley, told us as we came along about the Little Smith Street landlady coming here this afternoon?"
 
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