"The other one is
dead as a door nail," kept running through his head,--"the other one."
The rumble of voices and the shuffling of feet continued, indistinct
but laden with tragedy. The curious hush of catastrophe seemed to top
the confusion that infected the place, inside and out. Barnes found
his electric pocket torch and dressed hurriedly, though not fully, by
its constricted light. As he was pulling on his heavy walking shoes, a
head was inserted through the half open door, and an excited voice
called out:
"You awake? Good work! Hustle along, will you? No more sleep to-night,
old chap. Man dying downstairs. Shot smack through the lungs. Get a
move--"
"Shot?" exclaimed Barnes.
"So they say," replied the agitated Mr. Dillingford, entering the
room. He had slipped on his trousers and was then in the act of
pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. His unlaced shoes gaped
broadly; the upper part of his body was closely encased in a once blue
undershirt; his abundant black hair was tousled,--some of it, indeed,
having the appearance of standing on end. And in his wide eyes there
was a look of horror. "I didn't hear much of the story. Old man Jones
is telephoning for a doctor and--"
"Did you say that the man was shot?" repeated Barnes, bewildered.
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