There was no answer. The face was rigid and fixed. Around the neck was a faint, bluish line, a mark like what might have been made by a cord.
“Johnnie, Johnnie!” cried the old man again, in piercing tones. He caught at the hands of the figure before him; he tried to pull it forward.
There was no response. The old man turned away and rushed to the window, gasping, with white lips, and bloodshot eyes, and a face of horror.
“He is dead!” he shrieked. “My boy—my son—my Johnnie! Murderer! You have killed him.”
The landlord and the servants started back in horror from the presence of this father in his misery.
It was for but a moment that he stood there. He went back and flung himself upon the bed. Then he came forth again and stood upon the balcony, motionless, white-faced, speechless—his lips muttering inaudible words.
A crowd gathered round. The story soon spread. This was the father of a young man who had stopped at the inn and died suddenly. The crowd that gathered around the inn saw the father as he stood on the balcony.
The dwellers in the cottage that was almost opposite saw him, and Asgeelo brought them the news.