Griffin unlocked the door. He stood facing Edwin in his shirt-sleeves. Rosie, still dressed, clutched at the mantelpiece. The vein in the middle of Griffin’s forehead bulged with anger. His short neck was flushed.
“What the hell—” he began—and then they closed. Edwin’s heel ripped up the corner of the carpet as they swayed together. Suddenly Griffin’s grip slackened. His face blanched, and in a moment Edwin was letting down a sheer weight upon the bed.
“What’s the matter?” Rosie screamed, and flung herself beside him. “What’s the matter?”
“Good God! . . . He’s gone.”
“No . . . No—” she cried.
Edwin tore open Griffin’s shirt, listening for an impulse that was not there.
“He’s gone,” he said, panting. “He’s dead. . . . Heart. . . . He always had a rocky heart. He’s dead.”
The awful word seemed to pull Rosie together. They stared at each other blankly with wide eyes. “Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Yes. . . . Of course—”
She rose to her feet, speaking in a voice that was quite new to him.