It was really a merciful dispensation of Providence that the old man never knew of the disappearance of his valued miniatures. By the time that extraordinary mystery had come to light he was dead.
On the evening of January the 14th, at half-past eight, Mr. Frewin had a third paralytic seizure, from which he never recovered. His valet, Kennet, and his two nurses were with him at the time, and Mrs. Frewin, quickly apprised of the terrible event, flew to his bedside, whilst the motor was at once despatched for the doctor. About an hour or two later the dying man seemed to rally somewhat, but he appeared very restless and agitated, and his eyes were roaming anxiously about the room.
“I expect it is his precious miniatures he wants,” said Nurse Dawson. “He is always quiet when he can play with them.”
She reached for the large, leather case which contained the priceless art treasures, and, opening it, placed it on the bed beside the patient. Mr. Frewin, however, was obviously too near death to care even for his favourite toy. He fingered the miniatures with trembling hands for a few moments, and then sank back exhausted on the pillows.
“He is dying,” said the doctor quietly, turning to Mrs. Frewin.
“I have something to say to him,” she then said. “Can I remain alone with him for a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” said the doctor, as he himself discreetly retired; “but I think one of the nurses had better remain within earshot.”
Nurse Dawson, it appeared, remained within earshot to some purpose, for she overheard what Mrs. Frewin was saying to her dying husband.
“It is about Lionel—your only son,” she said. “Can you understand what I say?”
The sick man nodded.