She had never before been in the presence of death, and for a time she thought that he had only fainted, and she raised his head and called upon him in accents of alarm and affection; then suddenly she heard a step behind her, and, looking round, saw the smooth, bland face of the man who had stood up in the box at the theatre, the man against whom Jeffrey had warned her.
She shrank back and clasped the dead man closer to her, as if to protect him.
“Has anything happened?” asked Spenser Churchill, with tender concern. “Dear me, I am afraid there has been an accident; the gentleman is ill?”
“Yes, yes!” panted Doris. “Help me! oh, help me!”
Spenser Churchill knelt down and examined the stern face with an anxious regard.
“Why, I know him!” he said, with an air of surprise. “It is Mr. Flint—Mr. Jeffrey Flint, is it not?”
Doris made a gesture of assent without removing her eyes from the old man’s face.
“Yes. Is he—is he very ill?”
Spenser Churchill shook his head, solemnly.
“I am afraid—how did it happen, Miss Marlowe? It is Miss Marlowe, is it not?”