“He comes. Ranjab has obey. I have told him that the revolver was discharge accidentally, by myself, by the unhappy son of a dog, I. It is well. Ranjab is but a dog. He shall die to-day and his lips be sealed for ever. Have no fear. The dead shall be silent.” His voice trailed off into a whisper, for his eyes were looking into hers. “No,” he whispered, after a moment, “no; the dead are not silent. One who is dead has spoken to Ranjab.”
“Hush!” said the woman. Brood's hands were shaking again, shaking and uncertain. “The doctor? He comes?”
“Even now,” said the Hindu, turning toward the door.
Dr Hodder came blinking into the room. A gaping assistant from his office across the street followed close behind, carrying a box of instruments.
“Turn up the lights,” said the surgeon crisply. It seemed hours before the soft glow was at its full and the room bathed in its mellow light. All this time not a word was uttered. “Ah!” exclaimed Dr Hodder at last. “Now we'll see.”
He was kneeling beside Frederic an instant later.
“Bad!” he said after a single glance. “Wiley, get busy now. Clear that table, Ranjab. Water, quick, Wiley. Lively, Ranjab. Shove 'em off, don't waste time like that. Ah, now lend a hand, both of you. Easy! So!” Three strong, nerveless pairs of hands raised the inert figure.
“Hello! What's this?” The incomprehensible Hindu in his ruthless clearing of the table had left the revolver lying where Yvonne had placed it. “Good Lord, take it away! It's done enough damage already.” It was Wiley, the assistant, who picked it up gingerly and laid it on a chair near by. “Now, where's the butler? Send for an ambulance, and—you, Wiley, call up the hospital and say———”
“No!” came in Yvonne's husky, imperative voice. “No, not the hospital. He is not to be taken away.”
“But, madam, you———”