Sam nodded.
"He was good to you, was he not?"
"Good?" The man drew a deep breath. "I'd have given my heart and soul to save him from a minute's pain, I would, sir! I'm telling you straight, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying! He was an angel on earth—my God, if ever I lay me hands on that woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out! I'll not leave her till she's torn to rags!"
His voice rose, specks of foam stood on his lips his whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of hate.
"She's been robbing him and robbing him for years," he shouted. "He looked after her and protected her, and she went and told lies about him, she did. She trapped him!"
His voice rose to a scream, and he made a move forward towards the desk, both fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Tarling sprang up, for he recognised the signs. Before another word could be spoken, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, and lay like one dead.
Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the unconscious man on his back, and, lifting one eyelid, examined the pupil.
"Epilepsy or something worse," he said. "This thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind—'phone an ambulance, Whiteside, will you?"
"Shall I give him some water?"
Tarling shook his head.