And then he drew a box of matches from his pocket, and
striking one, went closer and held the light down to the dead man's face.
Melky, edging closer to his elbow, looked, too.
"One of those Chinamen, without a doubt!" said Ayscough, as the match
flickered and died out. "Or, at any rate, a Chinaman. And--he's been dead
some days! Well!--this is a go!"
"What's to be done?" asked Melky. "It's murder!"
Ayscough looked around him. He was wondering how it was that a dead man
could lie in that garden, close to a busy thoroughfare, along which a
regular stream of traffic of all descriptions was constantly passing, for
several days, undetected. But a quick inspection of the surroundings
explained matters. The house itself filled up one end of the garden; the
other three sides were obscured from the adjacent houses and from the
street by high walls, high trees, thick bushes. The front gate was locked
or latched--no one had entered--no one, save the owner of the knife that
had dealt that blow, had known a murdered man lay there behind the
laurels. Only the rat, started by Melky's footsteps, had known.
"Stay here!" said Ayscough.
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