Side by side with Nat Wills, Anthony Miles knelt down by the bedside.
“Do you know me, David?” he said, with the gentleness that death teaches us.
Once more David tried to speak, once more the words failed him. His eyes turned away in piteous entreaty, and the doctor, passing his arm round him, got him to swallow a few drops of stimulant. Then those who were nearest heard his voice as if front far away.
“I was going to you—next—that letter—”
“The letter?” repeated Anthony in surprise. The shadow of his life was not touching him at that moment; he could not understand.
“Have you given him a letter?” asked Mr Bennett.
“The letter—- about the—will.”
The blood rushed over Anthony’s face. He understood at last. For an instant it was like the lifting of an iron weight, for an instant his heart leaped up. Mr Bennett came closer and began to question eagerly,—
“Do you mean the Cornish letter?—the one all the talk has been about?”
“I ought to have told—O God, have mercy!”