Lying on the bed is a large-eyed, pale, emaciated young man, upon whose face is unmistakably written the sign of death. His thin hands, in which the blue veins show prominently clear, lie listlessly on the coverlet, though now and again the feeble fingers twitch nervously thereat, and a hectic flush covers his pale cheeks. His large hollow eyes have a brilliant, shining look in them, and they appear to be fixed on the door of the room which stands slightly ajar.
There is a sound of the street door downstairs opening, and the movement of several feet. The young man raises himself up and listens eagerly, but the exertion is too much for him, and he sinks back with a heavy sigh. The footsteps he has heard are ascending the staircase, however, and his eyes devour the door more eagerly than before. It opens and admits a young girl, a girl who would decidedly be called pretty were it not for the pinched, careworn look that rules in her regular and well-cut features. She bears a great resemblance to the invalid whom we have been describing. This is not to be wondered at, seeing she is his twin-sister.
“Maggie,” he exclaims in a low voice as she enters, “have you brought him?”
“Yes, Eric,” she answers at once, as she comes to his bedside, and puts the old faded coverlet at which his fingers have been twitching smooth and tidy.
“Where is he?” again asks the brother in the same low voice.
“Downstairs, Eric. I’ll fetch him up. He’s brought another gentleman with him. He calls him a magistrate, I think. He said this gentleman must take your deposition, because he couldn’t,” says Maggie, as she opens the door. The next minute she is running down the somewhat rickety staircase. Two gentlemen are standing in the passage below.
“This way, please, sirs,” she says politely, and they follow up behind her to Eric Fortescue’s room. The two gentlemen are Colonel Francis Barrett, divisional magistrate, and Evie, Duke of Ravensdale.
Eric Fortescue fixes his eyes on the latter, whom he knows well by sight. He has seen him often before with Hector D’Estrange.
“You wish to see me, my lad?” inquires the duke in a kind, but sad voice. “Your sister tells me you have something particular to say to me?”
“Yes,” answers the sick youth, in his low, feeble voice; “and I want you, sir, to take down what I say, and hear me swear it’s all true. I want to tell you quick, sir, because I’m dying; I can’t last long.”