He was surprised, as he drew near the house, to see a group of men standing there outside and talking together earnestly. As Mr. Hardy came up they stood aside to let him pass, but were barely civil.
"Well, Stevens," Mr. Hardy inquired of one of the men, recognising him as one of the employés in the casting room, "how is Scoville this morning?"
"Dead!"
Mr. Hardy reeled as if struck in the breast with a heavy blow.
"Dead, did you say?"
"He died about an hour ago," said one of the other men. "The surgeon was late in getting around, and after the amputation it was ascertained that Scoville had received severe internal injuries."
"Was he conscious?" Mr. Hardy asked the question mechanically, but all the while his mind was in a whirl of remorse.
"Yes; up to the last moment."
Mr. Hardy went to the door and knocked. A woman, one of the neighbours, opened it and he went in. The sight stunned him. The dead man had been removed to a rear room, but his wife lay upon the very same ragged lounge Mr. Hardy had seen in his dream. The surgeon was bending over her. The room was full of neighbours.
The surgeon suddenly arose and, turning about, spoke in a quiet but decided tone: