“THERE WAS A DULL SOUND AS OF A BLOW STRUCK”
Wayne turned to his father, who had sunk into a chair and was cowering there, his eyes staring at the silent, inert figure stretched out on the floor. He knelt and put his head to Gregory’s breast.
“He’s dead, father,” said Wayne quietly.
“Oh, God! he can’t be dead! My blow could never have killed him!”
“There’s no pulse—it’s all over. We’d better think about this pretty hard for a minute. It will be too late when the doctor comes and the servants find out. We must know what story you want told about it.”
Mrs. Craighill still crouched by the old man, and she put her hand to his heart now and satisfied herself that it had ceased to beat. She remained where she was, while Wayne stepped to the doorway and flung the curtains together.
“You struck him, and he is dead; what are we to do about it?” he demanded of his father.
“Why, it isn’t possible, Wayne!” cried Colonel Craighill. “It was more in the way of pushing him from the room than a blow; it may have been on the breast—perhaps over his heart; I can’t remember, but it couldn’t have killed him—it’s a faint—he will come around again all right. Try the brandy, Addie. If we call a doctor——”
He was pitiful in his agitation and kept twitching at his collar and wringing his hands.
“The man is dead,” said Mrs. Craighill. “We must have the doctor; but Wayne is right: before he comes you must know what you are going to say to him; the matter will be reported; we must know what to say.”