"I—oh I—Beverley, I—c-can't!"
And now, all at once, as they stared into each other's eyes, Barnabas leaning forward, strong and compelling, Barrymaine upon his knees clinging weakly to the table, sudden and sharp upon the stillness broke a sound—an ominous sound, the stumble of a foot that mounted the stair.
Uttering a broken cry Barrymaine struggled up to his feet, strove desperately to speak, his distorted mouth flecked with foam, and beating the air with frantic hands pitched over and thudded to the floor.
Then the door opened and Mr. Smivvle appeared who, calling upon Barrymaine's name, ran forward and fell upon his knees beside that convulsed and twisted figure.
"My God, Beverley!" he cried, "how comes he like this—what has happened?"
"Are you his friend?"
"Yes, yes, his friend—certainly! Haven't I told you the hand of a
Smivvle, sir—"
"Tonight he killed Jasper Gaunt."
"Eh? Killed? Killed him?"
"Murdered him—though I think more by accident than design."