Again Henry Carleton nodded. “Nothing that one can do, I suppose?” he asked, and the doctor shook his head. “No,” he answered, “practically nothing; it’s really his own fight. I’ll leave some directions about medicine and diet, of course, and I rather think, on the whole, though it’s probably a needless precaution, that I’ll stay here with you for the night. You might fix me up a sofa in his room, if you don’t mind; I think perhaps I should feel better satisfied to stay until morning, anyway. His heart isn’t quite what I’d like it to be.”
By nine o’clock Edward Carleton seemed to be in better spirits, and to be resting more comfortably, and neither Henry Carleton, nor, for that matter, Doctor Morrison himself, retired with any thought of an immediate turn for the worse. Henry Carleton, indeed, resigned himself to sleep with all the comfort that comes from a conscience serenely at peace with every one, and a knowledge that one’s worldly affairs—deprecated but not despised—are going magnificently to one’s advantage. Calmly enough he balanced his spiritual accounts with his Creator and his fellow-men, and found that with both his credit was good. Placidly he passed in review on matters more material, and there found, if such a thing could be, his credit better still; and then, as a good man should, dropped off to sleep with no disturbing or vexing thoughts to mar his rest.
Yet after all, the night was not destined to be a peaceful one, for somewhere in the long, silent spaces that lie between midnight and the dawn, the bell connecting Edward Carleton’s room with his rang once, twice, thrice; insistent and shrill, piercing his dreams with a sudden foreboding of evil. In a moment he was up and across the hall, to find, in the dim light, the doctor, half-dressed, supporting the old man’s figure, swaying as he strove to prop him against the pillows. Sharply the doctor spoke. “On the mantel,” he cried, “my case. Quick, please. No, come here. I’ll get it myself. Keep his head up—there—that way—so. Just a minute, now; just a minute—”
It was but the fraction of a minute, at the most, until he returned, but in the interval the old man’s eyes had opened and had gazed at Henry Carleton with an expression of recognition. Instantly, too, he strove to speak, but in vain, and then, just as the doctor reached his side, his eyes closed, and his head dropped back among the pillows. Edward Carleton was dead.
It was seven o’clock the next morning when Doctor Morrison, tired and pale with the strain of his long, sleepless night, entered his office, to meet Helmar just coming down the stairs. “Old Mr. Carleton’s gone, Franz,” he said abruptly, “heart failure. He died early this morning.”
Helmar glanced up quickly. “I’m very sorry indeed,” he said, “but it’s not a surprise. I remember when I saw him I didn’t give him over six months, or a year, at the most. His heart action was none too good even then, and there were other things.”
Doctor Morrison nodded, then looked at him with a rather curious expression. “Franz,” he said, “you know your friend Jack Carleton?”
Helmar’s eyes met his frankly. “I was just thinking of him,” he said, “I’m afraid it will be a terrible shock. I think he scarcely realized that his father was failing at all. Poor old Mr. Carleton! And what a difference it all makes. To think that Jack will come into his fortune now.”
Again Doctor Morrison eyed him curiously. “Come into his fortune,” he repeated, and again Helmar looked up quickly, struck by his tone.