"How can I tell you?"Joseph demanded. "One's heart stood still! The world span round. I suppose one knew then, intuitively, that the worst had happened. Yet one clutched at a frail thread of hope!"
"And what about Mr. Stephen, sir? Did he clutch at it too?" asked Hemingway, unimpressed.
"I think he must have. I recall that he sent Ford at once for some brandy. But an instant later he had realised the awful truth. As I dropped to my knees beside my brother's body, he said: "He's dead."'
"It didn't take him long to discover that, did it?"
"I think his instinct must have told him. I could not at first believe it! I told Stephen to fetch a mirror. I would not believe it. But Stephen was right. Only he thought that Nat had had a stroke. He said so at once, and for a few moments I was mercifully permitted to think so too."
"And then?"
"Let me think!" Joseph begged, pressing his fingers to his temples. "It was all a nightmare. It seemed - it still seems - unreal, fantastic! Ford came back with the brandy. Stephen took it from him, sent him away to ring up the doctor."
"Oh!" said Hemingway. "So Ford was hardly in the room at all, what with one thing and another?"
"No. There was nothing he could do. While he was still in the room I had made my ghastly discovery. I was glad to hear Stephen telling him to leave us. At that moment I could not bear that a stranger should be present."
"What discovery was this, sir?"