"Of course—of course. Oh, do hurry with the doctor. Perhaps he is not dead, after all."
With that ready adaptiveness which in Americans so often supplies the place of training, four of the men stepped forward, and lifting the body gently bore it up the steps and through the open door into the drawing-room, and laid it on the lounge just under the bullet-hole in the wall.
A doctor bustled in, box in hand. He made [Pg 355] no effort to open his case, however. One look was sufficient.
"Death must have been instantaneous," he said. "What a queer thing,—a suicide on Thanksgiving Day!"
CHAPTER XXII
THE END
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| Extract from the Journal of Miss Susan Standish, Oldburyport, December 1. |