That gay smile of triumph shone in his eyes for the last time.
"Used—my—brain—all—laughed—me—in—Hugh's—"
And the life flickered out of him as we watched.
Two big tears rolled down Watkins' cheeks.
"'E was a good master. Oh, Mister Hugh, sir, I do hope we can punish those bloody villains!"
"We will," said Hugh coldly, rising to his feet. "For the time being, Watkins, remember to keep your mouth shut about all this. Uncle James was right about the police. They can't help us in such a matter. If there is anything in the treasure story we should wreck any chance of finding it by advertising our purpose."
"The less said the better," I agreed. "If the police ask us, he rambled at the end about Gypsies and family affairs."
There were several details to be settled with the hospital authorities. The British Consulate had to be notified. Reporters had to be seen. It was early evening when the three of us returned to the apartment in West Eleventh Street, and the newsboys were yelling an extra.
"English nobleman murdered on the East Side! Horrible death of Lord Chesby!"
I bought a copy, and we read it as we walked down Fifth Avenue: