It was as if he had brushed away a fly.
He wrote on, and the boy beneath the bed fainted dead away. When again the poor lad's eyes opened, he saw the great, white face bent over its papers, the firm hand moving steadily from left to right, heard the resolute scratch and screech of the pen as it traversed the pages. But he saw also that the huddled heap upon the floor was moving slowly.
With infinite effort, though without a sound, the cripple's arm crept down the side of his dying body. With infinite effort, and with what agony none of us will ever know, Lockhart withdrew the pistol with which I had provided him. He could not lift his arm, but there was movement in his wrist. Slowly, very slowly, the hand rose from the floor.
The flash and crash were simultaneous. Upjelly's mouth opened wide. He tried to turn his head and could not. He coughed twice and then sank quietly forward upon the records of his treachery.
The shot broke the nervous bonds in which young Dickson had been held. He scrambled up from beneath the bed. He ran round the table with averted eyes and bent over Lockhart. There was a little hissing noise, like a faint escape of gas. Dickson bent his ear to the mouth of the dying man.
"Take Miss Marjorie to Wordingham—Inn—village. Gather up—all those papers. Put them in bag. After—Miss Marjorie—Inn—run—fast as you can—to—Doctor's—old Hulk—Thirty Main. Give everything—Mr. Carey. Good-bye, boy...."
One last gasp, and the word "England!" sighed out into the bedroom.