‘I tell you I won’t stay there!’ he shouted. ‘It’s unlucky—that room where Featherstone slept the night before he killed himself! It’s unlucky!’
The restless patient sank on the stairs, exhausted by the exertion. Before Richard could do anything, Mrs. Bridget, that gaunt and powerful creature, had picked up the little man, and by great effort carried him away again. The people downstairs saw no more of him. Mrs. Bridget had at last made up her mind to take him firmly in hand.
Richard was startled by a light touch on his shoulder, and he was still more startled when he caught the horror-struck face of Juana—the staring eyes, the drawn mouth.
‘Tell me,’ she said, her finger still on his shoulder—‘tell me—I cannot trust him—has Mr. Featherstone committed suicide? Is he dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard, extremely mystified, but judging that simple candour would be the best course to adopt under the circumstances.
‘There was an inquest. Didn’t you see it in the papers?’
‘Circus folk seldom trouble with newspapers,’ she said. ‘When was it?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘Poor fellow!’
Tears ran down her cheeks, and she spoke with an accent indescribably mournful.