“And he'd be murdered?”
“Madam, it's apples to ashes!”
The eyes of the Widow Van Flange seemed to light up with an unearthly sparkle, while a flush crept out in her cheek. I was gazing upon these signs with wonder regarding them as things sinister, threatening ill.
Suddenly, she stood on her feet; and then she tottered in a blind, stifled way toward the window as though feeling for light and air. The next moment, the red blood came trickling from her mouth; she fell forward and I caught her in my arms.
“It's a hemorrhage!” said Gothecore.
The awe of death lay upon the man, and his coarse voice was stricken to a whisper.
“Now Heaven have my soul!” murmured the dying woman. Then: “My son! oh, my son!”
There came another crimson cataract, and the Widow Van Flange was dead.
“This is your work!” said I, turning fiercely to Gothecore.
“Or is it yours?” cries he.