“Fired from some little distance, I'd say.”
“Fifteen or twenty feet, perhaps.”
It suddenly dawned upon Brood that they were talking of suicide.
“Good Heaven, Hodder, it—it wasn't that!” he cried hoarsely. “What right have you to doubt my word? I tell you I———”
“Your word, Jim? This is the first word you've spoken since I came into the room.”
“Is—is it a mortal wound?” broke from the other's lips.
“Can't tell. First aid now, that's the point. We'll get him downstairs in a few minutes. More light. I can't see a thing in this—hello! What's this? A photograph? Fell out of his pocket when I—oh, I see! Your wife. Sorry I got blood on it.” He laid the small bit of pasteboard on the table. “Wiley! See if you can get a mattress. We'll move him at once. Lively, my lad. He's alive, all right, Jim. Do our best. Looks bad. Poor kid. He's not had a very happy life of it, I'm afraid—I beg pardon!”
In considerable embarrassment he brought his comments to an end and bent lower to examine the small black hole in the left breast of his patient.
Frederic's lips moved. The doctor's ear caught the strangled whisper that issued.
“Curious,” he remarked, turning to Brood with something like awe in his eyes. “I'm sure he said 'Mother.' But he never knew his mother, did he?”