He gave a hard shudder. "I don't know if I can, Juliet. It's been—so awful. He suffered—so infernally. The doctor didn't want to give him morphia—said it would hasten the end." He stamped in a sort of impotent frenzy. "I stood over him and made him. It was just what I wanted to do. It was—it was—beyond endurance."
"Oh, my dear!" she said.
He put his hands over his face. "Juliet,—it was—hell!" he said brokenly. "When I wrote that note to you—I thought the worst was over. But it wasn't—it wasn't! He was past speaking—but his eyes—they kept imploring me to let him go.—O God, I'd given my soul to help him! And I could do—nothing—except see him die!"
Again a convulsive shudder caught him. Juliet's arms went around him. She held his head against her breast.
"It's over now," she whispered. "Thank God for that!"
He leaned upon her for a space. "Yes, it's over. At least he died in peace," he said, and drew a hard, quivering breath. Then he stood up again. "Juliet, I'm so sorry. Come inside! I'll light the lamp. I couldn't stand that empty house—with only my boy's dead body in it. Mrs. Rickett has been there, but she's gone now." He turned and pushed open the door. "Wait a minute while I light up!"
She did not wait, but followed him closely, and stood beside him while he lighted a lamp on the wall. He turned from doing so and smiled at her, and she saw that though his face was ghastly, he was his own master again.
"How did you get here?" he said. "Who took the note? The doctor promised to get it delivered."
"Jack brought it," she said. "I came back with him."
"Jack!" His brows drew together suddenly. She saw his black eyes gleam. For a moment he said nothing further. Then: "If—Jack comes anywhere near me to-night, I shall kill him!" he said very quietly.