Long John staggered to the door. The other men hurried to place cushions and coats in a corner on the floor. They laid the dying man on them.
“How long have I to live?” he asked.
“I do not know,” returned Scrivener, “but I think for two or three hours. We gave that poison before to——”
“Hush!” said Simpkins suddenly, clapping his hands across Scrivener’s mouth.
“I forgot myself in the excitement of the moment,” answered Scrivener. “I wish I’d never done the ghastly deed—Rowton of all men! If it were not for Long John, and that he’d find a way to hurry one out of the world if one did not do his slightest wish, why——” Scrivener wiped the dew from his face.
“Ours is a ghastly calling,” said Simpkins. “There, mates,” he added, turning to where a group of the men were huddled together in a distant part of the room, “you had best leave us. Long John is not killed, but he has got his deserts after a fashion, and he’ll have to lie dark for a bit. The rest of you go home, and be quick about it. When we want you again we’ll let you know.”
The men still hesitated. At last one of them, treading on tiptoe, came to the upper end of the room.
“Shake hands, mate,” said this fellow, going on his knees and holding out his hand to Rowton. “Say you forgive us before we go.”
“I forgive you, mates,” answered Rowton; “you were only tools. There is one man whom I do not forgive, and that is your boss. He acted with treachery and you were not courageous enough to resist. Now go. I have only a short time to live and much to do.”