The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill expostulations of the sour spinster.
"I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is the clergyman? I must see the clergyman."
"Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----"
"Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his visitor gazed blankly at one another.
"Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!"
"Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?"
"Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm Jerry."
The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of recognition, he fell back dead.