"You are right, Miss Thackeray," said the former, deeply mortified.
"This is not the time nor the place to----"
"He can't understand a word we say," said Putnam Jones loudly. "You
better get out of here yourself, young woman. This is a job for men,
not--"
"I think he's going now," she whispered in an awe-struck voice. "Keep
still, all of you. Is he breathing, Mr. Barnes? That awful cough just
now seemed to--"
"Come away, please," said Barnes, taking her gently by the arm. "I--I
believe that was the end. Don't stay here, Miss Thackeray.
Dillingford, will you be good enough to escort Miss--"
"I've never seen any one die before," she said in a low, tense voice.
Her eyes were fixed on the still face. "Why--why, how tightly he holds
my hand! I can't get it away--he must be alive, Mr. Barnes. Where is
that silly doctor?"
Barnes unclasped the rigid fingers of the man called Andrew Paul, and,
shaking his head sadly, drew her away from the improvised bier. He and
the shivering Mr. Dillingford conducted her to the dining-room, where
a single kerosene lamp gave out a feeble, rather ghastly light. The
tall Bacon followed, the upper part of his person enveloped in the
blanket Putnam Jones had hastily snatched from the mattress before it
was slipped under the dying man.
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