“And Saul Harrington must be dead,” said the old lawyer, in a solemn whisper, which seemed to run along the roof of the gloomy, crypt-like place.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
New Mortar.
They hurried to the door as soon as they had recovered from the first shock.
“Look here, sir,” said George, “what shall we do about the dog?”
“Ah, I forgot him. It would be too horrible to let him get into the room where the poor fellow is. Yes, poor fellow! De mortuis, et cetera. Come along, Mr Blank, and we’ll lock the dog in here for a few hours.”
“Good idea,” was the reply; and the outer door of the cellar was locked upon Bruno, who made no attempt to follow; but when they reached the study door, all was perfectly still, and upon George’s turning the handle softly, the doctor quickly raised his head and gave them a nod.
“Got it?” he said. “I’ll have mine here.”