In a few minutes Spenser Churchill returned, with a couple of farm laborers carrying a hurdle, and the body was tenderly and reverently carried to the house, Doris walking beside it and still holding the cold, dead hand.
Hasty preparation had been made for the reception of the stricken man, and he was carried up to the best room. A messenger had been sent to Barton for the doctor, and in a short time he appeared and was received by Mr. Spenser Churchill, who awaited him at the gate.
“Mr. Jeffrey Flint!” said the doctor, as Spenser Churchill, in sympathetic accents, gave an account of the case. “Yes, yes! Ah, yes, I know something of him; he consulted me a few days ago.”
Then he passed upstairs and into the room where the dead man lay upon the bed, with Doris kneeling beside him still holding his hand.
“My dear,” said the doctor, after a short examination, “this is no place for you. No one can do anything for him; your friend has gone to his last rest,” and he motioned to the woman of the cottage, who stood crying at the door.
Slowly, reluctantly, Doris permitted them to take her away, and the doctor after a few minutes went downstairs and rejoined Spenser Churchill.
“It is only too true, I see,” said that gentleman, sadly.
The doctor nodded gravely.
“Yes,” he said; “he has been dead some time. It is very sad, very! That poor young creature—Miss Marlowe, I believe?”
Spenser Churchill nodded again.