He and his wife were eating their dinner in the basement.

I told him what had happened.

He said he had let no visitor in to see the captain, and was inclined to view my misgivings with a cold British eye.
However, I persuaded him to go with me to the captain's rooms.
The captain's door was open.

Remembering that in England the way of the intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first.

He stepped into the room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.
"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the Indian Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on his handsome English face! The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning in this room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died.