The blade has gone straight through his heart." And I have in my mind the unforgettable and awful picture of Anastasius Papadopoulos disregarded in a corner of the room, with his absurd silk hat on--some reflex impulse had caused him to pick it up and put it on his head--sitting on the floor amid a welter of documents relating to the death of the horse Sultan, one of which he was eagerly perusing.
After this my memory is clear.

It was only the first awful shock and horror of the thing that dazed me.
The man was dead, said the doctor.

He must lie until the police arrived and drew up the _proces-verbal_.

The manager went to telephone to the police, and while he was gone I told the doctor what had occurred.
Anastasius took no notice of us.

Lola, holding her nerves under iron control, stood bolt upright looking alternately at the doctor and myself as we spoke.