He went into the adjoining room, leaving the door ajar. Myra heard him reach the bed. Then followed a long silence.
“What is it?” she called at last. “Is he not there? Why are you so long?”
Then the doctor came back. He carried something in his arms, wrapped in the old shooting jacket.
“Dear Lady Ingleby,” he said, “little Peter is dead. He must have died during the night, in his sleep. He was lying just as I left him, curled up in the coat; but he is quite cold and stiff. Faithful little heart!” said the doctor, with emotion, holding his burden, tenderly.
“What!” cried Myra, with both arms outstretched. “Peter has died, because Michael is dead; and I—I have not even shed a tear!” She fell back among the pillows in a paroxysm of weeping.
The doctor stood by, silently; uncertain what to do. Myra’s sobs grew more violent, shaking the bed with their convulsive force. Then she began to shriek inarticulately about Michael and Peter, and to sob again, with renewed violence.
At that moment the doctor heard the horn of a motor-car in the avenue; then, almost immediately, the clang of the bell, and the sounds of an arrival below. A look of immense relief came into his face. He went to the top of the great staircase, and looked over.
The Honourable Mrs. Dalmain had arrived. The doctor saw her tall figure, in a dark green travelling coat, walk rapidly across the hall.
“Jane!” he said. “Jeanette! Ah, I knew you would not fail us! Come straight up. You have arrived at the right moment.”
Jane looked up, and saw the doctor standing at the top of the stairs; something wrapped in an old coat, held carefully in his arms. She threw him one smile of greeting and assurance; then, wasting no time in words, rapidly pulled off her coat, hat, and fur gloves, flinging them in quick succession to the astonished butler. The doctor only waited to see her actually mounting the stairs. Then, passing through Lady Ingleby’s room, he laid Peter’s little body back on his dead master’s bed, still wrapped in the old tweed coat.