Litvinoff caught her two hands and held them tightly.
'Wait, wait; they are getting him to his bed. You would only be in the way. Trust me, Miss Stanley. I would not keep you from him if you could be of any use to him. You may be of real service by-and-by.'
'Very well,' she said; 'I will do what you tell me. But, oh, tell me all you know; tell me where he's hurt; did you see? Will it be dangerous? For pity's sake tell me what you saw, whether—'
Here the door opened, and Roland came in. Her eyes searched his face for re-assurance, but found there something more terrible than her worst fears, and as he opened his lips to speak she cried in a high-pitched voice, quite unlike her own, as she held out her hands as if to keep off something, 'Don't tell me—don't tell me anything—let me go!'
And as Roland stood aside she rushed from the room. Litvinoff closed the door.
'He's dead,' said Roland.
'I know. I knew that directly I put my hand on him. I have had my hand on a man shot dead before to-day.'
Roland sat down on a low chair. It was the one Clare had occupied half-an-hour before. There on the little table by it lay her work-basket, and some pretty useless bit of sewing, and all the little gilt working implements which she had put down when she went to meet her father. Roland's eye fell on them, and he groaned.
'Good God, Litvinoff, what a terrible thing! What a frightful blow for them!'