"Killed him! Murdered him!"
"Yes. Pull yourself together and listen. Tomorrow the hue and cry will be all over London, we must get him away—out of the country if possible."
"Yes, yes—of course! But he's ill—a fit, I think."
"Have you ever seen him so before?"
"Never so bad as this. There, Barry, there, my poor fellow! Help me to get him on the couch, will you, Beverley?"
Between them they raised that twitching form; then, as Mr. Smivvle stooped to set a cushion beneath the restless head, he started suddenly back, staring wide-eyed and pointing with a shaking finger.
"My God!" he whispered, "what's that? Look—look at his coat."
"Yes," said Barnabas, "we must have it off."
"No, no—it's too awful!" whimpered Mr. Smivvle, shrinking away, "see—it's—it's all down the front!"
"If this coat is ever found, it will hang him!" said Barnabas.
"Come, help me to get it off."