Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then:—
“I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come and feel!”
Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
“Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily.
Mr. Priestley went.
The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left he was far too agitated to notice.
“Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously.
“No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit.
The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid finality.
They stared at each other.