"The old man is dead, sir."
"Dead–dead, say you?" shrieked Kanoffskie, springing to his feet, trembling and pale.
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"How–how long since, do you think?" he asked, in a choked voice.
"Probably fifteen or twenty minutes; he is scarcely cold yet."
"Heavens!" he exclaimed, and sank back in his chair.
"It might have been expected, sir."
"Yes, but in connection with my dream! Barnwell, my dream! It must have come simultaneously with it!" and the wretched man seemed scarcely able to sit in his chair, so greatly did he tremble, while great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
Barnwell hastened to set a glass of wine before him, which he tremblingly bore to his mouth and swallowed at a gulp.
"More!" he gasped, and Barnwell poured him out another.