Murder became suicide—suicide became accident, before the clang of the ambulance-gong sent the depressing shivers through nerves that would thrill with pleasurable excitement at the sound of the fire-gong. Then a group of men came out of the front door, and hats came quickly off when those nearest caught a glimpse of a marble-white face, with long, inky lashes clinging close to ghastly cheeks.
For, between those dreadful whistling breaths, Thrall had warned Jim, word by word, that it was "an accident," and explained that Jim, having supposed the old cartridges were withdrawn, snapped the revolver, standing at close range, adding: "Keep—steady—stick—to—story—Jim—for—her—sake! Now—call—make—big—row! I'm—gone!"
And Jim, conscious of an awful blunder, obeying to the letter, as Thrall fainted, tore away the heavy portière that had helped so much to deaden the sound of the shot, dashed open the door, and, like a madman, shouted: "A doctor! a doctor! for God's sake, Barney! I've shot Thrall! I have! I have! Oh, run! run! I'll call a policeman myself!"
He was obeying orders—he was making "a big row," but suddenly he thought of Sybil. "Oh, my beautiful!" he cried; "I meant to serve you, and I've robbed you instead!" And, as the policeman advanced toward him, he fell forward in the fit that had threatened him all the day. Yes, Jim was obedient to the last—he made "a big row"!
The next day, almost at the same hour, the pale woman who had watched at Thrall's side almost unwinkingly left the room for a moment to confer with her maid. "English crêpe," she whispered, "of course. The heaviest and best is always the cheapest in the long run."
It was only a moment's absence, but the long lashes on the stricken man's ghastly face lifted, the hand went to the wounded breast. With the instinct of the actor, who always considers effect, he thought gratefully that the hemorrhage had been internal, and that he had not been an offensive-looking object. He turned his eyes to the side where Lettice had sat and watched. She was not there. His eyes widened with pleasure. He rose suddenly—the effort was a mistaken one. He realized it in a moment. There was a red spot creeping out on his shirt, and—and a salty taste in his mouth. Yet he smiled, almost maliciously, as he thought: "I am escaping her, after all!"
Then he knew. He shivered. "Sybil!" he said; "beloved!"
The door opened—the clock was striking down-stairs—from a near room came the whir of a sewing-machine—Stewart Thrall was dead.