They laid him down—very carefully. And he smiled at them as he groaned.
Traherne looked up, as he knelt holding him still, and ordered, “Brandy!”
Lucilla went to the tantalus, filled a glass, and brought it back; she held it towards Traherne, then drew it back, half-knelt, half-sat on the couch where her husband lay; and it was she who held his last glass to Antony Crespin’s gray, stiffening lips.
The Raja turned away quietly, and left them, motioning the guards back to the corridor door. He himself strolled slowly to the wireless table, saw the draft message, written in a woman’s hand, still lying there, took it up and read it.
“Antony!” the wife sobbed.
He smiled—and a man’s love lit his filming eyes. Then they sought Traherne’s. They gave each other a long, level look.
“Carry on!” Crespin said. Traherne nodded, tried to speak, choked, then mastering himself with difficulty, muttered brokenly, “Well played, sir.”
The death-rattle sounded, the hand Lucilla held was more lifeless and colder, but it gripped hers yet. “Give my love,” he whispered her, “to”—the rattle again—“the kiddies. Lu—will you”—again!—“kiss them—for me?” She nodded. She could not speak. “Lu—Lu—Lu—” his voice trailed off, and died in his rattling throat.
Rukh stood in the folding-door’s opening and held out towards Crespin the paper on which their message was written. “How much of this did you get through?” he asked in a clear, vibrant voice.
“Too late; he’ll not speak again,” Dr. Traherne thought. “You’ll get nothing from—that”—for the form they held was cold and still.