Lauriston bent over the counter at last and craned his neck to look into the open door of a little parlor which lay behind the shop. The next instant, with no thought but of the exigencies of the moment, he had leapt over the partition and darted into the room. There, stretched out across the floor, his head lying on the hearthrug, his hands lying inert and nerveless at his sides, lay an old man, grey-bearded, venerable – Daniel Multenius, no doubt. He lay very still, very statuesque – and Lauriston, bending over and placing a trembling hand on the high, white forehead, knew that he was dead. He started up – his only idea that of seeking help. The whole place was so still that he knew he was alone with the dead in it. Instinctively, he ran through the front shop to the street door – and into the arms of a man who was just entering.