“Listen.”
In the hush, they heard a sound like a sob, a low murmur of words; then a rustling, chinking sound.
“Like some one praying,” West said.
“Careful now,” said Margaret. “Come on after me.” They crept from the office on tiptoe, their pistols ready. In the corridor a board creaked beneath them. They paused guiltily, straining their ears to listen. They heard some one cross the room quietly. Then the door was flung open, letting a glare of light into the corridor. A priest stood before them, holding up a crucifix. Within was a bed. A woman knelt by the bed. Some one lay on the bed, covered with a cloth. Margaret raised his hand, and the priest stepped back, looking at their faces curiously.
“Donde esta el caballero inglès?” Margaret asked. “El señor Stukeley?”
A faint smile showed upon the priest’s mouth.
“Here,” he said in good English. He twitched back the bed-cloth reverently, to show the body of Stukeley lying dead. The face was a dull yellow, the mouth was inflamed. There was no need for further words.
“Vomito,” said the priest.
“Yes,” Margaret said, uncovering. “Vomito.”
“This morning,” the priest said.