He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were approaching the scene.
“Are you sure, Dr. Baird?” he asked.
“Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped.”
“But might that not be from some cause—some temporary cause?”
“Yes, but not in this case. Mr. Carwell is dead. I can do nothing for him.”
It sounded brutal, but it was only a medical man's plain statement of the case.
“Some one must tell her,” murmured Minnie Webb, who had been attracted to the crowd, though she was not much of a golf enthusiast. “Poor Viola! Some one must tell her.”
“I will,” offered Bartlett, and he made his way through a living lane that opened for him. Then it closed again, hiding the body from sight. Some one placed a sweater over the face that had been so ruddy, and was now so pale.
Captain Poland, still supporting Viola on his arm, saw Bartlett approaching. Somehow he surmised what his fellow clubman was going to say.
“Oh, Harry!” exclaimed Viola, impulsively holding out her hands to him. “Is he all right? Is he better?”