“He threw me—against—a table.”
Her voice was growing weaker. Choking back tears of grief and anger, the young man rose and stood beside her.
“Grace, I command you to tell me!”
His voice was low, but it was vibrant with power and authority. The girl tried to speak. Her lips moved, but she uttered no sound. Guy thought that she was dying, and taking her secret to the grave.
Her eyes moved to something beyond the foot of the bed, back to his, and back again to whatever she had been looking at, as if she sought to direct his attention to something in that part of the room. He followed the direction of her gaze. There was a dressing table there, and on it a photograph of a man in a silver frame. Guy stepped to the table and picked up the picture.
“This is he?”
His eyes demanded an answer. Her lips moved soundlessly, and weakly she nodded an affirmative.
“What is his name?”
She was too weak to answer him. She gasped, and her breath came flutteringly. The brother threw himself upon his knees beside the bed, and took her in his arms. His tears mingled with his kisses on her cheek. The doctor came then and drew him away.
“She is dead!” said the boy, turning away and covering his face with his hands.