"The key is half-turned," he said. "I can't see nothing except just the
light."
"Here's Mr. McIntyre," cried half-a-dozen voices, as Robert came
forward.
"We'll have to beat the door in, sir," said the policeman. "We can't
get any sort of answer, and there's something wrong."
Twice and thrice they threw their united weights against it until at
last with a sharp snap the lock broke, and they crowded into the narrow
passage. The inner door was ajar, and the laboratory lay before them.
In the centre was an enormous heap of fluffy grey ash, reaching up
half-way to the ceiling. Beside it was another heap, much smaller, of
some brilliant scintillating dust, which shimmered brightly in the rays
of the electric light. All round was a bewildering chaos of broken jars,
shattered bottles, cracked machinery, and tangled wires, all bent and
draggled. And there in the midst of this universal ruin, leaning back
in his chair with his hands clasped upon his lap, and the easy pose of
one who rests after hard work safely carried through, sat Raffles Haw,
the master of the house, and the richest of mankind, with the pallor of
death upon his face. So easily he sat and so naturally, with such a
serene expression upon his features, that it was not until they raised
him, and touched his cold and rigid limbs, that they could realise that
he had indeed passed away.
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