“It is a leg. Suppose—suppose it is the governor's leg! Suppose that heap is the governor! He may have had a fit. We shall have to break into the room. Just see if Thompson has come back. If he hasn't get hold of two of the juniors quietly. Send another as fast as he can go to the nearest doctor, and get some brandy ready. It's a strong door, but together we ought to manage it.”
There was no sign of Thompson in the office, but one of the articled pupils was a Rugby half back. Spencer returned with him and one of his fellows and the Rugby man attacked the door with a vigour that had brought him through many a scrum. It soon yielded to their combined efforts, and then with one accord all the men stood back. There was something at first sight about the everyday aspect of the room into which they gazed that seemed oddly at variance with their fears. Then slowly all their eyes turned from Mr. Bechcombe's writing-table with his own chair standing before it, just as they had seen it hundreds of times, to that ominous heap near the window.
John Walls bent over it, then he looked up with shocked eyes.
“He—I am afraid it is all over.”
“Not dead!” Spencer ejaculated; but one look at that ghastly face upon the floor, at the staring eyes, and wide open mouth with the protruding tongue, drove every drop of colour from his face. He turned to Walls with chattering teeth. “It—it must have been a fit, Walls. He looks terrible.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
It was a woman's voice. With one consent the men moved nearer the private door so as to shut out the sight of that ghastly heap.
“Is there anything wrong?” There was an undertone of fear about the voice now.
John Walls turned.
“Mr. Bechcombe has been taken ill, Miss Hoyle—very ill, I am afraid.”